


Civil War

by LoniceraAstray



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, I'm sorry Abraham Lincoln, If they are physically identical, It's not Disloyalty, M/M, Multiple Personality Disorder, Political Incorrectness, Porn with a lot of Plot, Right England?, but you have an admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-07-23 16:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoniceraAstray/pseuds/LoniceraAstray
Summary: We nations are marvelous creatures. You would know this better if you were around us during our civil wars, like what I did back in America's.American Civil War fic. In which England took care of an America with multiple personality disorder and other psychological symptoms, and maybe doing something more. England's POV, first person. Relationship:USUK, little to none places for other characters. See the tags and notes for more warnings.





	1. The Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Hello~Again, this idea has been in my mind for a while. It kept nibbling at me when I was writing IYAH, and it's plot is simpler, so I decided to let it come out first. It's not a political fic, but considering the background and the character (CSA), there are still some possibly offending expressions, so you are warned. Also, I tried to make this fic as historically/psychologically accurate as possible, but due to the 'supernatural' nature of nations, those facts would be inevitably twisted. So yeah, enjoy.

_June, 1862_

I finally arrived at the appointed house in the outskirt of Frankfort, Kentucky. The footmen unloaded my suitcase when I stepped out of the carriage. The house in front of me was large and extravagant, like typical American ones. I quirked an eyebrow. _They gave him this even in the war time. Why I’m not surprised._

The moment I stepped into the house I knew something was _wrong_. The house was neat and clean, but it was far too empty to be a comfortable home. Some books, newspapers and files were discarded carelessly around the living area. It seemed that the owner of the house didn’t have a steady job at hand.

Then I heard _his_ voice from upstairs.

“Mrs. Adair, let me go! I don’t wanna live in this fucking slavery state anymore!”

“Please come down, Mr. Jones, Mr. Kirkland is on the way, he might arrive at any time. Talk to him before you rush your decision, would you?”

“I couldn’t care less what the old man thin—Hey Artie.”

I narrowed my eyes, scrutinizing the young man coming downstairs with a big suitcase in his hand.

“Couldn’t care less about me, huh?”

“Well…uh…It’s not like that! It’s simply…a while.”

It was quite a while. We hadn’t seen each other much since the European War was over. Ever since the Civil War broke out a year ago, we stopped writing to each other.

He had grown up since I last saw him. I guessed he was almost 6 feet tall. His boyish chubbiness had long faded. His shoulder seemed broader and although dressed in long-sleeve shirt, his arms was visibly more muscular. And the legs constrained in tight breeches were far too long. _A handsome young man_ was the first phrase came into my mind and I thought it wasn’t bad to admit it sometimes.

“No hugs for your former big brother?” I smiled.

Then I was crushed into a firm embrace so forceful that I was nearly choked to death on the spot.

_I withdraw my words_ , I thought, _he is way too heavy_.

* * *

We sat face to face on the balcony outside his bedroom on the second floor. I was drinking tea and he was drinking hot cocoa. When the atmosphere was more comfortable, I asked:

“So how are you doing these days?”

“Me?” Alfred seemed to be confused at my words, “You mean _me_ or the United States or, you know, _him_ …”

“Tell me about all of them.”

“Well,” he inhaled deeply, then exhaled, “It’s a long story.

“When the war broke out, I was in Washington. I was definitely on the Union side, well, I always am. But I could feel the secessionist influence grow in me. First it was inner conflict, then there was contradiction in action which I could not control. I began tearing my recent work apart, trying to escape to the Confederate States, snapping Southern slangs to my boss and…finally, I found myself lose memory at intervals.

“There was one time when I woke up I found myself holding a rifle heading to Abraham Lincoln’s room while my last memory was chatting happily with him in a restaurant. I panicked, so did he. Then my boss decided to put me as far away as possible, but he didn’t want me to be in the Southern States, either, so I ended up here.

“They told me my other personality—if that’s the case—called himself Freddie so I started calling myself Alfie in case they get confused. Freddie appeared only occasionally at first, but now it’s more of a day-to-day basis. We switch at random speed in random time so you never know when your important letters and other possessions would be thrown into fire, which means you could keep nothing important with you and do nothing for your side in the war.

“It’s tiring, England, very exhausting, to lead such a double life. I couldn’t even talk to him so that I might persuade him. I’m fucked up, helpless, sometimes I even want to end my—”

“Alfie,” I held both of his hands, looking into his distraught, cerulean eyes, “it’s ok, Alfie. That’s exactly why I am here. Your situation is not uncommon among older nations during their civil wars. It’s usually temporary, but there are nations who had a permanent or semi-permanent personality split, usually due to too much tension between different personalities. I have such experience myself, so I think I might know how to take care of you. Please trust me, Alfie, no need to be distressed.”

Cerulean eyes blinked in surprise, I was sure I also saw a glitter of hope in it. But he seemed to remember something and said: “If I finally cure, me and Freddie, there will be only one of us left, right? Which one would you choose to cure? I thought you were on the Confederate side?”

I took a sip of my tea.

“For the first question, you are right, usually one of you would be totally forgotten in your future consciousness. But to cure you doesn’t mean that I have to choose from you two. All I have to do is to make sure you two stay mentally stable so that you won’t want to kill yourself or each other. And finally, I come here in representation of Britain, not my current government, and I think they will agree that the mental health of the personification of America is crucial to our national interest.”

Alfie stayed still for a while, then he grinned, the bright, shell-white, ear-to-ear grin.

“Thank you very much, Artie! Now would you like some more tea?”

I nodded. He stood up and went back to the house.

It took him a bit longer than usual, maybe he was not used to prepare tea for his guests these days. When he came back, he gently poured the tea from the teapot into my cup, in a slow and elegant manner. I haven’t seen that manner in him for decades.

“Surprised? You taught me to pour tea like this when I was thirteen. Think I’ll forget?”

“No, I just—”

Then I saw his cerulean eyes.

Sapphire, to be exact, for there were no bright, innocent light in it, only lustre of cold, sharp mineral, the same eyes that I saw more than half a century ago in the rainy battlefield.

Then he smirked.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland. I’m Alfred F. Jones, just call me Freddie.”

* * *

I leaned on the bedroom door frame, watching Freddie carefully took his things out of the suitcase and placed them back where they belong.

“How often does this happen? The switch, I mean.” I asked tentatively.

Freddie stopped pushing a big wooden case under his bed, then slowly stood up with his back towards me.

“About three to five times a day recently, that is, I lose memory for three to five times per day.”

“And you have memory before the war?”

Freddie sent me a dubious glance.

“Are you sure you have been in the same situation before, Mr. Therapist?”

“Of course, but I only want to make sure. Things differ from nation to nation.”

“Well then. I’m not sure what my other personality told you, but I guess he said he was the two-hundred-and-a-half-year-old nation whose mental life was recently disturbed by a new personality who called himself Freddie, right?”

“Something like that.”

“From my point of view, however, _he_ was the intruder.”

Freddie went back to his cleaning-up. The way he arranged things was a little obsessive, I observed. It was natural to suppose that he was the main cause of the over-tidiness of the house. I crossed my arms, trying to get things straight in my head. Not that I didn’t know about such syndrome. I was only curious about the mechanism behind it.

“My theory is,” after emptying his suitcase, he walked towards me, “both narrations are true. We nations are kind of supernatural being anyway. It’s not surprising if we have different mental history in different alternative universe, so to speak.”

“That’s the most impressive theory I have heard from a nation with multiple personality disorder.” I replied, not sure if I was being sarcastic. Was I?

He raised an eyebrow, the liveliest part of his (still handsome) face, “So how are you going to cure me, Mr. Therapist?”

“Not to cure _you_ , to be exact…” wait, something was wrong, I paused for a moment, then came to realization, “JUST HOW DID YOU KNOW MY INTENTION HERE I DON’T REMEMBER MENTIONING THEM TO YOU!”

“Déjà vu. Although me and Alfie don’t exist at the same time, we often have a blurred impression about what the other had done during the time we pass out. I don’t know why, maybe to prevent us from killing each other.” a cold smile appeared on his somehow paler face, “Again, I thought you know such trivial details.”

“Must be too long ago.” I mumbled.

“Then why not have a relaxing hot bath first?” He went to the corridor, stretching his arms, “Come with me, I’ll show you where the bathroom is. Then Mrs. Adair will take care of you.”

I sighed inwardly. _This is going to be a long trip._


	2. The Trip

_June, 1862_

The next morning, I woke up to a warm living thing squirming on my chest.

Of course, it was Alfred. Alfie, to be exact.

“Artieeeeeeee~” the obnoxious creature whined, “It’s a cloudy day today so we go out for a field trip ok? I’m so borrrrrrreeeeeeeddddddddddd~”

Said the man who couldn’t care less about me last evening.

“Just how old are you?” I pinched his nose and chuckled, “Fine, fine, let me go so I can get up.”

I was crushed into a bear hug again.

What a refreshing beginning of my American country life.

* * *

“…so although he said to the congressmen that he put me here because this is a slavery but neutral state so I would be safe and sound but deep down he really wanted someone to visit his childhood home and his father’s old estate for him he even requested me to pay a visit to the Knob Creek Farm his father’s favourite farm he intended to buy it back when he is old so that…”

_The boy just couldn’t stop talking, as always_ , I thought to myself. We were riding along a path in a pine forest. The sunshine pierced through the clouds at times, casting huge shadows of pine needles on us. It was a lovely scenery, but Alfie didn't seem to care. 

“Sounds that you like him a lot.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yup! I bet he would become one of the most awesome president in American history! And he is a good man in private life, too. He is kind and modest, has a strong sense of morality, and oh how he loved his children his little Tad you should have seen him sometimes I envy him a lot…”

“An ideal father figure, huh?” I felt a little bitter inside, but I should be glad that he finally had learnt to get along with and depend on other human and had his own judgement towards his bosses. I really should be glad.

For the first time since I saw him, Alfie seemed to discern my subtle change of emotion.

“You know, Artie,” he slowed down in order to ride by my side, “sometimes I think I am really, really lucky, to have you as my caretaker. You were a bit too young back then, but you did really good job raising me.”

“T-thank you, I guess.” I suddenly felt my cheeks hot.

“You are welcome.”

…

We arrived at a hillside meadow which a stream flew across. Alfie had been complaining about his thirsty horse for a while, so we sat beside the stream, let our horses drink when we keep on chatting.

“And how about your love life? Any girlfriends?” I asked kindly, not knowing since when the topic turned intimate, “It’s OK, I was a wild teenager at your age. Once I even courted…”

Cerulean eyes hesitantly turned to me, shy, embarrassed, even sort of…panicked.

“I-I had several girls these years. Just several, five or six. A-and it wasn’t serious at all, you know, all flattery, no sex involved. I guess that’s all we nations can do, staying single for all eternity, haha.” he laughed dryly.

I furrowed my eyebrow. Apart from his Puritan background, I didn’t remember my boy to be such an…abstinent type. He had more advantages than me, considering his appearance, his physique, his sweet personality (or gentle at Freddie’s side), he should have a bunch of girls chasing after him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were boys of the same number.

“Well actually, if you need my advice…”

“Can we stop talking about this now?” Alfie snapped.

“As you wish.”

…

I wasn’t surprised that when I finished washing my hands in the stream, it was Freddie who was preparing the picnic on the grass.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kirkland. Nice to see you again.” his sapphire eyes were studying me, which made me feel a little uncomfortable. To be honest, everything about him made me feel a little uncomfortable. He wasn’t like the typical Alfred in my memory, but rather reminded me of _myself_ at this age. Distance, obsession, scepticism, perfect etiquette. Or maybe he was the personality lurking at the bottom of Alfred’s soul. Either way, _no bias,_ I told myself.

“Nice to see you, too, Freddie.” I went toward him, “What did your déjà vu tell you this time?”

“Not much. Riding tour, Abraham Lincoln, my ex-girlfriends, but I feel lucky I’m in time to save the day.”

“Oh? I don’t think you could save yourself from the ‘oldest virgin boy’ honour.” I teased.

Unfortunately, Freddie’s eyes darkened.

“Ya wanna ‘ear?”

…

“…HOLY SHIT BLOODY FROG FUCKING ATONIO AND GODDAMN BOLLOCKS GILBERT…”

Freddie was giving me a sympathetic look.

“Yup, I don’t go around humping girls, but ever since the Revolutionary war, I found myself quite enjoy bottoming.”

How could he say all these matter-of-factly? With shell-white grin on his face? Didn’t he have sham—wait, just why should I care?

“Does that bother you?” asked a perceptive American.

“No, not at all! You are an adult, you have freedom in your private life.” I replied.

“Guess so. Now could we start eating? I’m starving, I think it was over 17 hours since I had my last meal.”

…

We strolled in the vast meadow for the whole afternoon. Freddie kept complaining that Alfie never took Charles Dickens or Nathaniel Hawthorne with him when he went out, only some “cheap, cloying romantic novels or populist pamphlets”.

“You do have a taste, don’t you?” I asked.

“Sort of. I read history and philosophy, too. It’s not a very noble hobby in wartime, but you have to find something to do when you are kind of deprived of political life.” he said sarcastically.

“Same for me. I was hiding in St Andrews during my civil war and Cromwell’s rule, studying theology day after day, like a monk.” I smiled, “In retrospect, it’s kind of a luxury for we nations to escape from the political world. You’ll miss it.”

“Wish _I_ could live to see that day,” there was a little sadness in sapphire eyes, “or I’ll be spending my last days as an amateur literary critic, maybe the most long-lived one in history.”

We both laughed.

“Haven’t you met Jefferson Hamilton Davis? He is kind of your boss, right?” I tried to change topic.

“Well, no. I’ve been to Virginia on my first escape to the South, but I hadn’t yet reached Richmond when Alfie took control and brought us back to Washington.”

“Just how many times have you tried to escape?”

“About fourteen? Most of them were in the early days of the war, several times during my stay here. Alfie must have tried at least as many times, for yesterday wasn’t my first time unpacking his suitcase.” he sneered, “We both know that it’s better we stay here, but he just can’t bear living in a state where black slaves are allowed. What a sense of justice.”

I stayed silent.

“You share the same moral instinct with that guy, don’t you?” sapphires suddenly got very, very chilly, “Come on, it was you British colonizers first introduced black slaves here, wasn’t it? And don’t tell me you are a faithful of Jeremy Bentham. Utilitarianism will get you nowhere. In that view we are even abusing these horses! How ridiculous.”

“They are two different issues. People are not the same as animals. They have rights.”

“Different only in rationality, right? Then what if some people possess a higher level of rationality? Don’t they deserve a more decent life?”

“You can’t prove they are inferior in rationality. Maybe it’s only because of geography and culture.”

“It’s common sense.” he concluded, “I don’t think this conversation will lead us anywhere. You are not reasoning, only justifying your moral instinct, so do I.”

I shrugged.

…

We rode back when the sun was setting. We stopped intermittently to admire the flushing evening clouds, the vast meadow dyed with gold, the blue shadows of woods afar. Freddie kept a steady speed alongside me, saying that my thousand-year-old body needed extra care. I hit him with my hat, he laughed and made a successful dodge.

* * *

I was lying on the guest room bed, reading J. S. Mill when Freddie came in in a robe, hair damp, cowlick still stubbornly defying gravity. He also brought with him a bottle of hot milk, which was gently put down on the bedside table.

And he came near me. Very, very near. So near that the scent of his shampoo filled my nostril. So near that I could see the droplets rolling down his face.

“…What?...”

Then he kissed me. On the cheek.

“…?...”

“It’s a lovely trip, Arthur. Hope you don’t mind our little disagreement on certain issues. Enjoy the milk and good night.”

“…Well, I won’t…”

“Artieeeeeeeeeee~”

Oh, not now.

It was my first time to witness the full process of a switch. Sapphire eyes gradually cleared up, like sunshine casting into a cube of sea water. Facial expressions lit up, moderate smile extended into an ear-to-ear beam. The force exerted on my arms seemed to increase, too. And the whine. _The whine._

“OH GOD WHAT DID THE PERVERT DO TO YOU WHY YOUR CHEEK IS SO RED TELL ME ARTIE I’LL BEAT HIM UP!”

“He...um…can’t you remember?” if I had survived the whining part now I must be dying of embarrassment.

“…Oh.”

“So…yeah…”

“Can I kiss you? It’ only fair!”

“What? I…”

Then he gave me a peck on the other cheek.

“So it’s a draw, bastard! And good night, Artie!”

“…Goodnight.”


	3. The Secret

_July, 1862_

“You want to have a word with me?”

I was in Freddie’s study. It had been a few weeks since I came to America’s house. I thought I got along quite well with his two personalities. Alfie was not that obnoxious and Freddie was not that distant once you get familiar with them. Or was it because I had learned to adapt to them myself?

The study was large, just as other rooms in this house. I said it was Freddie’s not only because Alfie would not bother himself with rows of Aristotle or Walt Whitman, but also because the room was so neat that Freddie would risk his life not to let it be messed up by his other personality. Also, Freddie seemed to spend quite an amount of time here alone.

Now we were sitting across from each other beside an oak desk.

“Yes. I have a request. A very important one.” sapphire eyes cold and still.

“Please tell me.”

He removed a small key from a key chain in his pocket, unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a file folder, then put it on the desk. He stared at it for a while.

“I was lying when I said I was deprived of political life. Actually, politics is still the center of my life.”

I raised my head from resting on my hands.

“You know the main job of we nations is to give advice to administrators using our rich historical experience, our direct knowledge to the geography, political events and economic condition of our country, right?”

I nodded.

“And you know such knowledge is precious during a civil war?”

“Of course.” I sat straight from the back of the armchair, “You are using your knowledge of the Union’s military disposition and economic conditions to help the Confederacy, right?”

“Exactly.” the boy smirked, “My personality is split, but my brain function remains united. I think that’s why I could know what the Union side is doing. Well, sort of, not very detailed.”

“Brilliant. That’s the trick I played once in my civil war.” I lay back to the armchair, “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Alfie doesn’t do this because he fears his contact would be discovered by me. I have the same concern. Luckily, there is a Southern boy in this house who is a firm supporter of Confederacy. I always have him by my side when I am writing these reports. If Alfie suddenly takes control, he will destroy them with ink or candle fire in no time, and it’s always him who help me remove the key, unlock the drawer and deliver my reports.

“However, the boy caught a severe flu several days ago and had to stay in hospital for a while. Meanwhile, I discovered some important information that might turn the table of a crucial battle. I couldn’t miss the chance, but I can’t find anyone around who is trustworthy. So I turned to you.”

I quirked an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry that it would be unfair for Alfie. He could do the same thing whenever he wants, and I don’t mind if you help him, as long as you don’t betray my secret to him.”

_He was confident. Just how did he know me so well?_ I furrowed.

“I’ll help you. What exactly do you want me to do?”

“I know you will say so.” a cold beam, “Just do such and such…”

I had a foreboding that this wouldn’t end well.

* * *

I came back from the post office, only to see a cross-armed, poker-faced Alfie standing in the hall.

“I know you are on his side from the beginning.” a sardonic grin, “How long have you been hooking up with him, huh? How far did you two go? Did he let you fuck him? How often? Did you enjoy it? He’s more mature, more gentle, more sexy in bed than me, am I righ—”

“Alfred!” I burst out, “Stop your ridiculous sexual association. We did nothing. I helped him because this is a common practice for nations in their civil wars. You can do it if you want.”

“Oh?” Alfie went towards me until our tips of toes touched, then he grabbed my jaw forcefully, “Does this mean that I can do the same thing to you? But I want to do this the other way around. Your small, thin frame will make you a good botto—”

Slap.

Cerulean eyes blinked with hurt.

“Behave like an eighteen-year-old, would you?” I grabbed his collar, “I said. No sexual relationship is involved. Talk to me like this again and I’ll leave you here alone to death.”

Alfie lowered his head for minutes, then looked at me with his usual, cheerful expression.

“Well then, I think I have a request, too.”

…

Alfie drew a wooden box out from under the bed. It was locked. He fumbled in his pocket for a while and unlocked it so that I could see the content inside.

My jaws dropped.

Letters. The 15-inch-wide wooden cube was filled to the brim with letters. I guessed there was at least 500 of them. They were of different size and quality of paper, but all of them had the same recipient’s name on them, in scrawls: _To Abraham Lincoln, the president of the United States of America_.

Alfie was fidgeting with his fingers, his cheeks a deep crimson.

“Wow. You do have a huge crush on him, don’t you?” I picked up one of these letters, examining it, “I guess that’s why you don’t have any long-lasting relationship with girls?”

“Arthur! It’s not like that! I just…” he bit his lips before meeting my gaze, “He is one of the few humans I respect the most. When I have nothing to do here, I just couldn’t help wanting to talk to him. I started writing these letters ever since I left the White House, but I haven’t found a chance to deliver them. There’s no one I could trust around me, and those letters are too personal to be risked. So…yeah.”

“I see. You want me to post them for you, right?” _Oh god so sweet I’m dying_ was all I had in mind.

“Yup. Just be careful, some of them might be old and fragile.”

“OK, I will.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome, dear boy.”

* * *

Alfie was still there by the time I decided to go to sleep. As usual, he came into my room to give me a bottle of hot milk and a goodnight kiss. The milk part was done smoothly. The problem was in the latter part. No, that part itself was a problem.

Compared to Freddie who always kissed me on my left cheek, Alfie never seemed to be satisfied. He kissed different parts of me every day, on the cheeks, on the forehead, on the tip of nose, on the corner of my lips. I tried to push him away at the last situation, but he laughed and kissed my hand instead.

Today, big, cerulean eyes was lingering on my eyes, nose, then lips longer than usual, as if deciding where to put his lips.

“I’m sorry for today’s outburst.” he said sheepishly, “I am thinking how I could compensate you…”

“It’s no big deal, Alfie. Just go to sleep.” I narrowed my half-lid eyes, suddenly felt very sleepy.

“No! I am thinking…” he muttered, as if to himself, “Can I…May I kiss you _there_?”

“Where?” I couldn’t help but chuckle. And that’s when a pair of soft, warm lips were suddenly pressed on mine.

I didn’t instinctively push him back, which was strange because usually I didn’t like intimate bodily contact. Must because those eyes were too blue tonight.

After what felt like hours, he pulled back, a little breathless.

“I think it’s time to say goodnight, Artie. Remember the milk. See ya tomorrow.”

The next morning he didn’t come back, neither did he the morning after next.

Alfie disappeared for several weeks.


	4. The Fever

_September, 1862_

Today, when I got up at 7 am, the study was empty.

It seemed that all his files and other stuff were unscathed, so it wasn’t because of Alfie. Since the second week after Alfie was gone, Freddie began doing his “intelligence work” all day long (that’s from 6 am to 12 pm), and he didn’t even bother hiding his files into the drawer as long as I was around. The Southern boy was cured, but I had replaced his position in the study nonetheless. Of course, I had my own work to do. Freddie got me another desk in the large study so that I won’t be disturbed. Aside from regular report about my country, I also wrote reports about the progress of the battle in America to my cabinets on daily basis based on the information I got from Freddie and local newspapers. It was a kind of reciprocity. Sometimes I also missed the sweet Alfie and his obnoxious whine. However, politics had never been a practice of emotion. I had no doubt that Freddie would become an excellent co-worker if the Confederacy finally took control of America.

I should have been happy.

At 8 am I began to worry about Freddie. There was no trace of him in other parts of the house, and the door to his bedroom was locked. Alfie seldom locked his door, but our present owner of the body of the personification of America obviously thought otherwise. He didn’t answer the door, either, no matter how I knocked and bumped and shouted from outside.

What could make a nation too lazy, too weak or too sulky to open the door?

Since we are not talking about Alfie, I crossed out the first and third option.

Then I knew the answer.

I ran downstairs to the street, stopped a paperboy and bought the latest morning newspaper, glancing at the headline.

_HISTORICAL ATTACK LAUNCHED AT DAWN BY THE UNION IN SHARPSBURG._

That was it.

…

At about 10 am, the door opened slowly while I was sitting alongside the corridor, writing my financial report.

“…Artie?...” a thin, red face stuck out from inside the doorframe, surprised when he noticed my presence.

“Let me in, Freddie. I brought you cold towel and pills. They won’t help much, but they are at least something.” I stood up, pointing at a basin of cold water, a towel, a glass of hot water and bottles of pills beside me.

“…Come in…” he shuffled back to the bed, I supported him by his side and helped him sit down and lean on the headboard, closed the door when I got everything in.

There wasn’t much air in the room because the doors and windows were closed for too long. Freddie didn’t open the curtain, either. I sat on the side of the bed, handed some pills to his pale lips. He obediently opened his mouth, swallowed the pills, then drank the hot water I gave him. It reminded me of one time when Alfred caught a flu and had a fever when he was five. We nations might have fever in two situations: when we were infected by virus physically, or when we got ourselves into a civil war, especially during a bloody battle.

I took the towel soaked with cold water, wrung it out, then pressed it on Freddie’s forehead. His forehead burned, I thought his body temperature must have reached 38.5 degree Celsius. The length of such ‘civil war fevers’ depended on how long the battle lasted, which could be hours, days, even weeks. It would definitely damage his health as a biological being, but nothing could help, at far as I knew.

“It’s OK, Alfred my poppet, I’m here. It will be fine.” I chanted, one arm surrounded his shoulders and patting him, the other holding his hands. _Everything will be fine. This bloody civil war will be gone, and you’ll still be my precious boy._

“Will it?” his voice was weak and trembling, which made my heart ache. Sapphire eyes half-lid. So vulnerable. And dependent. “Stay, _big brother_. Don’t leave me. Please.”

I shuddered at his words. It had been more than half a century since someone called me “big brother”. Maybe deep down, Freddie was the more nostalgic one.

“And…could you please…wipe my body for me? I feel too hot to sleep.” Freddie’s already red face went redder.

“Fine. Just undo your pyjama shirt, will you?”

“…um.”

I helped him out of his shirt, let him lie down on his back. His whole upper body flushed an unnatural shade of pink. He was puffing, chest heaving like strong wave due to severe fever and maybe a little embarrassment.

And _oh._

I just forgot what an attractive young man he had grown into.

I ran the towel slowly through his neck, his collarbone, his chest. His body kind of reminded me of those young, slim, muscular figures in Michelangelo’s frescoes, only with more warmth and liveliness. His face turned to the side, not looking at me, but I could feel his heartbeat somehow accelerate under my hand.

I must have been too distracted, for I made a wrong move.

And accidentally touched one of his nipples.

With my bare finger.

“Ngh—” body tensed, he closed his eyes and moaned, seemed to be enduring great pain. His back also arched unconsciously, causing more contact between bare chest and bare fingers.

“I…I’m sorry!” I stuttered, retracting my hands immediately, “N-now roll over, on your stomach, would you?”

He didn’t make a sound when I continued to rub his back.

When I finished my work, I found him sound asleep. So I didn’t help him into his tops, just tucked him in.

Then I went on writing my financial report by his bed.

…

Freddie didn’t wake up until around 4 pm.

I was sitting on the bedside table, doing calculus with all my concentration when I felt a pair of strong, muscular arms around my waist.

“Freddie? Wha-ugh—” The moment I turned around, I was cut off by a pair of hot, dry lips. It was a gentle kiss but also firm and…shall I say desperate?...with our bodies rocking slightly back and forth and his hands soon on my hair and cheeks and roaming around my frame, as if wanting to carve my full image into his mind. He was still topless, I could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin through layers of fabric into my body. He didn’t ask for entrance, but he was licking and nipping my lips so subtly as if they were some precious chocolate bar.

I pulled out after seconds.

“Sorry, England…Did I make you uncomfortable? I just want to say thank you to you and…”

“Is this the only way for you Americans to show your appreciation?” I mumbled sullenly.

“My apologies. Just…I have a feeling that…I’ll have to go.” he lowered his head, “For a long time.”

“Freddie…”

“You miss him, right? I hope he will keep you happy.” Freddie squeezed his lips into a sad smile, “And please help me hide those files on my study desk, would you? The key is in my suit pants pocket.”

I nodded.

Freddie flopped into the bed.

An hour later, cerulean eyes flickered open, with tears mounting at their corners.

“Artie…” Alfie's voice was trembling and broken. He struggled up, wobbling towards me like a toddler, then suddenly slumped into my arms.

Then he began crying his heart out.

…

The next morning, the paperboy gave me a piece of newspaper for free. I glanced at the headline:

_SHARPSBURG: UNION VICTORY. TENS OF THOUSANDS OF CASUALTIES ON BOTH SIDES._


	5. The Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains sexual scene (which is neither graphic nor sexy).

_September, 1862_

I didn’t know what happened until the next morning from newspapers, because Alfie didn’t tell me anything that night. He was unable to tell me because he cried and screamed _all night long_.

It’s not what you think, ladies and gentlemen. I was following him dashing from one side of the house to the other, doing nothing but preventing him from killing himself. I knew I couldn’t help. In today’s words, Alfie had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD, but psychology hadn’t been developed much at that time.

And such situation lasted for two bloody _weeks_.

To some extent, Alfred was the kind of person who is extremely vulnerable to mental disorders. He had a hyperactive mind and strong emotions, his acute perception also made him sensitive to the changes in environment. And he had a vivid imagination. No wonder he may suffer more than other nations when experiencing the bloodiest day in his history.

Despite all the sympathy, I could only bear this much.

The last day of the second week after he woke up, I was on the roof, contemplating my options. I could keep taking care of him, which would drive me mad sooner or later. I could move out and leave him to his servants, whom I didn’t have much trust in. Or I could ask other older nations like China or India for help, especially China who had experienced a civil war every two or three hundred years, but these two countries were too far away, I was afraid that I would die of neurasthenia before I got their answer.

Then what could I do?

I was not a man of faith, but sometimes, you know, miracles do happen.

“Angleterre? Angleterre! Is that you? Why are you squatting on the roof? Brooding eggs?”

Or curses in disguise.

I narrowed my eyes, looking down, Francis was standing in front of the house, waving to me, a cocky smirk on his long, frog face.

Never in my life had I have such a strong impulse to jump down and end all this bullshit.

…

“AhhhhhwhenareyougoingtosavemeArtieI’mdyingI’mdefinitelydyingwithallthosehorsesandriflesandgunpowderssomeoneendthissssssss—”

“You’ve lived with him like this for two weeks? Ah, géniel l’amour~” Francis sipped a cup of tea. We were on the balcony outside Alfie’s bedroom. Again, this personality didn’t bother locking the door.

“It’s not like that! You stupid frog!” I couldn’t help but sulk at the presence of that man.

“Then I guess you need my help?” _that cocky smile._

“Um…Is there even a way out?”

“Oui. Remember the French Revolution? It was far crueller than this short small play. I wouldn’t have survived if not because of _that_.”

“And what’s _that_?”

…

I found myself surrounded in the puff of cigar ten minutes later, regretting asking the question in the first place.

It sounded plausible theoretically, but _practically_ , it’s just…gross.

I should have jumped.

…

“Goodbye, Angleterre~I’ll drop by again a few days later, wish you good luck with your dear Amerique, ohonhonhonhon~”

“Just fuck off already.” I pounded the door shut, then pressed my back to the door, contemplating.

It’s just choosing from two evils, right? Easy. Go straight for the less evil one.

I went towards the whining Alfie, grabbed him by his wrist, then drew him into his bedroom, shut the door with a loud thump.

“We need to have sex. Now.”

…

“Artie…why are you suddenly, you know…doing this?” Alfie stood there like a stone, fidgeting with his fingers, face red as a tomato, eyes darted to the ground, but I knew he must have been peeking at me undressing.

“To save your traumatic ass.” was all I said. It was embarrassing enough to hear it from France, I didn’t want to repeat it in my own words. And I had to do it quickly before I changed my mind. “Now, undress. Or I’ll do it for you.”

I stuck out my naked arm, trying to grab the zip of his breeches. He hit my wrist forcefully. When I looked up, I saw tears at the corner of his eyes. I stopped. I haven’t seen him so heartbroken.

“Artie, I love you. And I often dream of having sex with you. But I know…you don’t feel the same way.” he was practically sobbing now. _God, just what did I do to him?_ “I can understand that most of you European nations have a thing for my body, but I don’t want to do that anymore, not for money, not for war, not for any other shitty things. I only want to do it when you really, really love me. I won’t accept other options.”

I was silent for a few minutes.

“Look,” I said, the remain of cigar smoke escaped my nostrils, merging into the air, “I understand that sex has a sacred meaning to you, but this is emergency. You have been in severe mental disorder for two weeks, Alfie, and this is too much even for a sensitive nation like you. I know the mechanism of the disorder, it origins in a certain scene or event that gives you too much shock. Then you’ll be repeating the scene in your head but unable to say it out. This is scary, for if no one knows what’s going on in your head, they could do nothing to help you.”

“Then how is this symptom associated with…you know?”

“We nations are marvellous creatures, Alfie, sometimes certain physical parts of our body could carry non-spatial-temporal information like our history, memory, thoughts and so on. And…yeah, sperm happens to be one of such media.”

“So you mean I…do that to you, then you’ll be able to see my mental image, therefore cure me?”

“That’s the general idea.”

Alfie bit his lip, then looked at my face—unlucky for him, I had nothing on from my face down—his expression full of doubt and concern.

“You sure you won’t get the same disorder as me once you see them?”

“I think not. I’m experienced, and less sensitive to violent scenes.”

“And…you won’t hate me after that, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m inexperienced so if it hurts…”

“Just get this over with will you?!” I snapped.

Alfie began to undress himself while I was lying on his bed, on my stomach. The mattress was soft and elastic, very suitable for such activities. I grabbed his pillow under my arms, it smelled like sunflower fields and the fresh air after a torrential rain. I suddenly felt sorry for the boy. If what he said was true, he wouldn’t have imagined his first time with his beloved one to be like this. I wished I were someone who _really, really_ loved him.

I felt a large hand on my side, then before I knew it, I was flopped over, facing a naked Alfie who was straddling my hips, hands gently holding my shoulder. I squirmed.

“It will be easier that way.”

“But I want to look into your eyes when we have sex. They are beautiful.” Cerulean eyes so genuine, so serious, so…loving, if I got it right. “It’s my first time to be in…this position, you know. Please, I want it to be good, for both of us.”

“As you please, _sweetie_.” I was pleased to watch his cheek flushing red at a simple word. Then I remembered something, “Do you have any lubricant?”

“Yup.” he crawled out of me, fetched a small, delicate bottle from the bedside drawer, then put it in my hands, “Rose oil. I bought it specially for…occasion like this. I thought it suits you.”

I found myself smiling.

“I guess we should get started, huh?” he was winking down at me.

“Go ahead.” I murmured, “Just remember…release inside me. As deep as you can.”

Alfie replied by furiously attacking my lips. Meanwhile, he used his spare hand to take the bottle from me. I was ready to feel something cool and wet down _there_ , but instead, after a small pop sound which was the bottle being unbuttoned, I felt some thick and rich liquid dripped onto where my heart lay, then flew all over my chest, down to my abdomen and further downwards. Then a hot, large, calloused hand was passionately rubbing around my front, the scent of roses and soft moan and panting permeated the cool September air.

“I have dreamed of this for decades. You are beautiful, Artie.” he said softly, playing one of my oil-soaked nipples between his fingers, “So beautiful.”

_Don’t say as if I was a virgin teenage girl from your romantic novel._ I wanted to snap, but thought the better of it. _Maybe I should enjoy this…but this is Alfred. My child, my precious boy. I don’t feel that way, and I shouldn’t._

I tried to hold back my voice in case the scene become too erotic, too less business-like, but it was difficult when his warm, soft tongue was swirling into my naval. His whole body seemed to shudder every time a noise escaped my throat.

_Come on, Arthur Kirkland, you are better than this. You’ve experienced too much loveless sex. Treaty sex, alliance sex, trade sex, hate sex. Just imagine one of them. It’s easier that way._

I began to imagine one time with Francis when the Hundred Years’ War was over…no, it was practically a rape, too traumatic. Then back in 1588 with Antonio…no, I was topping that time. Then several years ago in India…

“Ahhh~Alfred~"

The hell with imagination when the _real_ thing was tangibly inside you.

…

I was sweating. A lot. The remain of rose oil volatilised into the air around me, combined with the scent of sex, making me suffocated.

Alfie was thrusting desperately into me. You can’t expect a two-and-a-half-centuries-old virgin to last long in his first time. Actually, for a first time, he was amazing. He wouldn’t stop leaning down to kiss me when his lower half was buried inside me, even if the angle may hurt his neck. 

“Arthur…I’m…close…” he was already a panting, sweating mess.

“…yeah…” I moaned, throwing my head backwards, only to be turned back by a calloused hand so that our lips could meet.

“…idiot.” I breathed at the interval of our kisses.

“Arthur…” his hot breath was suddenly in my ear, “I…love you…”

Before I could reply, a great amount of hot liquid shot deep inside me, filling me to the brim. I couldn’t help but close my eyes in ecstasy. And that’s when I saw _that_.

I shuddered. The sweat on my back suddenly turned cold, so did my blood. I haven’t been in such horror for decades. _God, if that’s the image that Alfie was forced to repeat in his head all day…_

Alfred passed out on me.

I screamed.


	6. The Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains sexual scene (which is neither graphic nor sexy).

_September, 1862_

_It was a regular march. Our brigade was passing through the woods under the cover of dim, dawning sky. We were going to raid the South, and we knew where they were._

_Or so we thought. Out of the woods, there was a clay path cutting across the plateau. Alongside the path, there was a cornfield standing in silence. The silence would add extra beauty to the country landscape if not in this situation. Now it was just too silent._

_We were approaching the cornfield. I had a dark foreboding within me. The little noises from the depth of the cornfield. The occasional flash of bright, metallic light among the stems of the plant. There must be a huge, bloodthirst beast lurking underground, grinding its teeth and sharpening his claw, ready to devour its prey. Run. We should run. But it was too late._

_It roared._

_Dark smoke erupted as if from thousands of volcanos burning with hellfire. Deafening thunders one after another. Shells of artillery were everywhere like July Fourth firework. Bullet. Bayonet. Mutilated limbs dancing in the air. Corn stems turned into faces of cannibals. Scream. Gunshot. Blood. The dull country scenery suddenly become ridiculously colourful and lively._

_It was devil’s feast._

* * *

“Arthur? Arthur! What’s wrong with you? Please wake up, Arthur!”

A cold, calloused hand was touching my face. No, it was cold because of my own tears. I was crying. And screaming. Just like what Alfie was doing these days.

“Look, I-I don’t care what you did with Alfie just now, but please tell me what happened.” sapphire eyes were full of concern, but I swore I saw something else, something unfamiliar in them. We were both naked on the bed, one of Freddie’s legs was draped over mine, dry traces of white, sticky liquid meandered from my entrance to the bed sheet. I realized just how _wrong_ it seemed.

“Um…You might find it incredible, but here’s the truth…” I explained to him why I was having sex with _him_ , and why I was screaming and crying.

“You are so kind, Arthur. Thank you for what you’ve done for us.” sapphires glanced from between my legs back to my face.

_I think I know what he was hiding in his eyes._

“You know, if there _is_ one thing that Alfie and I have in common…”

_Panic. Frustration. And…_

“…is that I’m seeing things, too.”

_Lust._

…

The day witnessed the personification of British Empire finding himself fucked into the same soft, elastic mattress, by the same oversized, virgin cock, in the same position (Isn't that obvious what it was, ladies and gentlemen?), for the second time within an hour an half. 

_All is necessary evil. For us both_. I thought. _God bless America. Rule, Britannia._

Freddie wasn’t a bad sex partner, either. He was less passionate and romantic than his other self, but he did know how to make you scream, with his steadily accelerating pace, powerful but not violent thrusts, gentle, sensational touch here and there, and deep, husky voice whispering into your ear.

“I’m sorry, Arthur, for letting you go through this,” I would believe his words if he was not exploiting this chance to nip my ear and puff his hot breath all over my cheeks, “but yes, you are beautiful.”

_Yet another thing you two have in common. Flattery brats._

“And oh god you are so tight. I can’t imagine you just let him in minutes ago.”

_Even worse than the other._

…

He was close, finally lost control and let his cock frenziedly pounding into me. It wasn’t a bad experience, to be honest, but considering what was to come, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“I’m…sorry…Arthur.” He managed to mutter a few words before sealing my lips with a long, firm kiss. I knew why he was doing this next second when his seeds burst deep inside me, along with certain mental images. _That_ could have made my blood cold if he was not kissing me senseless.

Just what had America been through?

* * *

_“Colonel Lightfoot.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_I was just appointed the commander of Sixth Alabama, taking the place of injured Colonel Gordon. The battle had been in stagnation at Sunken Road for a while. Everyone knew this is a crucial point._

_I had an assignment at this point._

_“Gather the right wing of your men, pull them back down the lane, find them a more sheltered place.”_

_It was a retreat command, then. I could handle this._

_“Yes, sir. No problem, sir.”_

_I went back to the front, shouting:_

_“Sixth Alabama: about face; forward match.”_

_Most men did as I say, but some of them still stood on the spot, confused._

_“Is this command applied to us?” The commander of my neighbouring regiment asked._

_“Yes, of course.” it was a retreat command, after all. “All the five regiments, at Brigade General’s command.” I added._

_There were noises within the troop, but all of them obeyed nonetheless,_

_We were marching to our aim point when we heard a wave of furious gunshot behind us, along with screams of dying men._

_Must be our men occupying another knoll. I thought. Pity that we couldn’t join them._

_The gunshot and scream didn’t stop for ten minutes._

_Cold sweat was running down my back._

_Then I heard from a soldier escaped from frontier._

_The yanks were slaughtering our men hiding in the road (which acted as a kind of trench) like slaughtering some sheep in the fence. No shelter, no escape. Hundreds of casualties._

_Because of my mistaken retreat._

* * *

We were lying on the bed, side by side, me and Freddie.

“Honestly, this is not what I had in mind when I saw you panic.” I sighed.

“Then what did you expect? Someone stabbing my guts out?” he sneered.

“More likely.” I didn’t have anything in mind, actually. Freddie still remained a mystery to me sometimes. “If you couldn’t speak of the event itself, tell me your feelings about it.”

“The thing…itself was not scary. I’ll blame him like anyone if I knew it from the third person perspective.” Freddie was trying to smooth his breath. “What’s scary is I _experienced_ it. I was so confident and at first, but it turned out to be…I was kind of a big sinner.”

“A sense of guilty, huh?” I turned to my side so that I was facing him, “Sometimes you push yourself too hard, Freddie. This piece of experience isn’t some random human’s memory inserted into your brain. You _called_ for it. It’s a reflection of your deepest fear and concerns .”

“But I seldom feel guilty—”

“—because you seldom do things wrong, thanks to your obsession and perfectionism. Think about it, if—” I halted, not sure whether it was proper to say the next words.

“—I lose this war. And I’ll be forced to admit my fault and sin. You want to say this, right?”

“Yes.” I lowered my eyes, not wanting to encounter those sad sapphires. I knew they were there. “You are not traumatized by the war itself, but by _being_ at war with yourself.”

Freddie nodded slowly.

“Uncertainty, insecurity, inferiority complex. You don’t want to admit them, but they are always lurking in your mind, is that so?”

“…”

“Answer me.”

Freddie raised his eyes, cold, sharp lustre of mineral shot at me.

“Why should I tell you.”

“Because I want to hel—hey! What are you doi—”

The boy was suddenly straddling me, a large, calloused hand was covering my mouth.

“You want me to admit it so that you’ll have more reason to care for me like you care for that self-assured idiot, right? You want to turn me into someone like him. Don’t deny it, every parent likes happy, carefree, yet dependent children. You are no exception. I haven’t seen you two together, but other people and my déjà vu tell me that he is always begging for your attention and you always give him what he wants. He was the first one to meet you, to kiss you, to have sex with you. He is the one who you would go through the nastiest method to cure, the one who you would forgive for a thousand time and more no matter what he has done, the one whose request you cannot reject, including receiveing a sensual foreplay even if you don’t love him.

“Yes, sometimes I envy him, even feel inferior to him, but I’ll never, ever want to become someone like him.

“I love you, England, and I want your love, but not the care and sympathy that you give him. I’ll let you know that I didn’t go through a Revolutionary War in vain. I want you to love me as an independent being, love me for who I am. ”

He removed his hand from my mouth. We just stayed there for a while. Then I sighed.

“Very good, Freddie. Just let me point out some facts, OK?”

“Sure.”

“First, Alfie had a better understanding of love. He was more than a cry baby. He knows how to care for people, and he knows I don’t love him ‘that way’. You must have seen this, but you don't want to admit it due to those complexes I mentioned above.

“Second, I don’t want to turn you into anyone. You might find me ‘care for’ you like I ‘care for’ him sometimes, but that’s because you are both kind of immature in my eyes. Yes, you are more intelligent, more perceptive, more careful for most of the time, but you are also arrogant, tricky and tend to go to extreme, like many teenagers do. And sometimes you want attention as bad as your other self.

“Want proof? Don’t think I couldn’t see through your little tricks, love. It was you who started stealing goodnight kisses from me. You used your occasional presentiment to choose the right time to call me into your study so that Alfie would woke up not too late to catch me from the post office but also not too early to find out your secret, and in this way you planned a little conflict between me and Alfie. You deliberately asked me to wipe your body so that we would have direct bodily contact, even though you didn’t feel that hot. And finally, I don’t think mental images had as great an effect on you as on Alfie, which means you just want an excuse to have sex with me.”

Freddie was blinking like a mad man, mouth agape. I winked.

“So don’t disturb my education scheme again, OK? If you want me to love you, be mature.”

Then I left his room.

* * *

Later that day, I was sitting by the dinner table when a sleepy Alfie came over.

“Had a good dream?” I asked.

“Yup. I just…couldn’t remember what I was doing for the last two weeks. Could you please tell me, Artie?”

I froze.

“You don’t remember? No images hovering in your head? Don’t want to cry or scream?”

“Why would I?” Alfie rubbed his watery cerulean eyes, “Um…I do feel sad for my dead soldiers and officers, though.”

“Anything else?”

“Yup! I…oh my god we had sex didn’t we oh god oh god it was sooooo amazing I couldn’t believe it by the way just how did it happen in the first place?”

“…Never mind.” I looked at the rest of salad in my plate, suddenly felt very, very sick.

See? I knew I should have jumped.


	7. The Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually I don't know much about Christmas...and at first I intended to write the dual caroling around the city with the people, must be cute O_O but I had to give it up for the plot, I hope it's worthwhile...

_December, 1862_

“England~merry Christmas~”

I didn’t have time for self defence when a pair of strong arms grabbed me by the thighs from behind and violently flung me down the ladder, into a bridal-style embrace.

In retrospect, I’m sure it was not Hollywood romantic films that poisoned his mind. It _had_ to be the other way round.

“Alfie you idiot! What are you doing!” I protested.

“That’s my line. What are you doing on top of a malnourished needle tree? It’s dead anyway.”

“It’s called a pine you git and it’s not malnourished it has the perfect shape for a Christmas tree and yes it has to be dead or its strong root would destroy your floor and turn your precious house into a jungle. Clear? Now, put me down.”

Alfred reluctantly released me, but didn’t stop pouting, “Why you Europeans are that into the Christmas tree thing? A tree inside a house? Gross.”

I wanted to retort, but thought the better of it.

“Want to decorate one?” I held up a red ribbon in my hand, winking seductively.

Alfie tried to turn aside, but his eyes kept peeking at me. And his needle tree.

I knew he couldn’t say no.

…

“Eeenngglaaaaaaddd~let me finish iiiittttttt~”

Now it was well past noon, but I still couldn’t tell him down the ladder to have lunch. I facepalmed. _Now there’s a last mean, at the price of my pride. Go on, choose the less evil one, England._

“I’ll prepare dinner myself if you don’t get down.”

Alfie stiffened, then rolled down the ladder and dashed into the kitchen.

_Yet another success of my education scheme, huh?_

* * *

Freddie was carefully brushing oil all over the fat, golden goose as he slowly rolled the grill.

“You can leave it to the cook. I was just scaring Alfie.”

“Nope. I’d rather do it myself. It’s our Christmas, after all, isn’t it?” flame dancing inside sapphires, a reflection of the stove nearby.

“Sounds like you are going to monopolize me.” I raised an eyebrow. If there had been any progress in the past three months, that must be my learning to tread along Alfred’s line without hurting either of us.

“No. I’m including Alfie when I said ‘our’.” I scrutinized his expression, which was genuine. “You’ll see.”

_Playing saint will get you nowhere, tricky boy._

…

As usual, Freddie spent most of the dinner time talking about history and literature. His army was making progress these days, so maybe he had time and the mood to dive deeper into human knowledge. He disappeared into his study soon after the dinner.

Maybe that’s what Christmas was meant to be for we nations who were doomed a lonely eternity.

* * *

“Artieeeeee~”

“What now?” at around 8 pm, I was doing embroidery when I heard a familiar whine from outside my bedroom.

“Let’s go to the church! Christmas carolling is fun!”

It wasn’t a request, it was a claim, for I was dragged down the street by a cheerful Alfie in no time.

It was cold outside, without snow. Lights emitted from the street side houses, however, were warmer than usual. _Must be happy family gatherings, with a devoted mother and a reliable father and sweet children and loving grandparents_ , so I thought.

In my long, lonely life, I once had a family member.

Who was now enveloping my hand in his large, warm one with all tenderness and care.

“You cold, Artie?” Alfie halted, turning to me.

“No…um…a little?”

He took both of my hands, put them near his purple lips, then breathed out deeply. I couldn’t see his expression because of white vapour rising from his mouth.

“Better?” a grin.

“Better.” a smile.

We went on heading to the church, hand in hand.

…

The church was small and austere, but very crowdy. You could find people of different ages, sex, race and walks of life in the crowd, although most of them were white, middle-aged couples with children who own a house nearby. Human are bizarre, aren’t they? They make their livings by drawing lines and setting barriers among themselves, yet they create certain rituals in which all the lines and barriers were abolished, and they think they would be redeemed through practicing those rituals. 

We stood beside the door, standing on our tiptoes to get a better view of the centre. A chorus was singing in front of the altar. I could barely hear what they were singing, but Alfie recognized it.

“It’s _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing._ That’s your people’s carol. You taught me about it when I was around fourteen, remember?”

“But I don’t…”

“That’s because they modified the name and lyrics. Wait, it’s our turn soon.”

Then people began singing, like an orchestra pieced together by grabbing random utensils from your kitchen as musical instruments. Alfie was singing, too. His voice was clear and soft and angel-like.

_“HARK! the Herald Angels sing,_  
_Glory to the new-born King!”_

I knew it. It was the carol I taught him at _that_ time.

_“Peace on Earth, and Mercy mild,  
God and Sinners reconcil'd.”_

It was when I was stuck in the bloody, nasty Seven Years’ War.

_“Joyful all ye Nations rise,_  
_Join the Triumphs of the Skies;”_

When I was driven by ambition, desire, bloodthirst, to devour, to exploit, to rob.

_“Nature rise and worship him,  
Who is born at Bethlehem.”_

When the glory of my empire reached its peak.

_“Mild he lays his Glory by,_   
_Born that Men no more may die;”_

When I was too proud to foresee my downfall.

_“Born to raise the Sons of Earth,  
Born to give them second Birth.”_

When I won the war but lost you.

_“HARK! the Herald Angels sing,_  
_Glory to the new-born King!”_

My precious boy. My only family. My dear, dear America.

_“Peace on Earth, and Mercy mild,  
God and Sinners reconcil'd.”_

I sinned to you.

…

“England? England! Artie!”

I opened my eyes. A pair of worried, desperate cerulean orbs above me.

“Thank god you are awake!” Alfie kissed me on the cheeks, like a squirrel anxiously nibbling its nuts for hibernation. “What happened? You suddenly passed out when the carolling began.”

I glanced around. It must be very late, for the church was empty and dark.

“Nothing. I think I’m just too tired.” I smiled faintly, “Let’s go back home.”

“Wait.”

“?”

“Could you please…let me go to a place first?”

“No problem.”

Alfie led me to the backyard of the church, which turned out to be a graveyard. It was very old, the grass surrounding the tomb were knee-length. It also seemed to be ordinary people’s, for there were no decoration on the tombstone. The names on them had long faded, too.

Alfie went to one of the tombstone, took out something—was it one of the decoration flowers I gave him this morning?—from his pocket, then put it in front of the tombstone, stood up, crossed himself, murmuring something deep from his throat, then went to the next tombstone to repeat the same ritual.

I stood there watching for half an hour until Alfie had no flowers left in his pocket. He turned to me, his expression peaceful and still. 

“I lost many, many men in last week’s battle.” he said slowly, “Sometimes I hate myself. So useless. Couldn’t even go to the front. I know some priests are there praying for dying or dead men, but all I could do is this.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that the people buried here are not even involved in the war?” I asked quietly.

“They are all ghosts anyway, maybe they can find some way to contact?” he forced a small smile, rested his head on my shoulder, which was strange due to the difference in height, but neither of us cared.

* * *

When we were finally home, Alfie said he was so tired that he wanted to go to sleep.

“Wait a minute.” I let him lie on the sofa, right beside the Christmas tree, went back to my bedroom, took a small box out of my cupboard, then rushed downstairs.

“…Engwand?” he sloppily opened his adorable puppy eyes, then looked down at the box, suddenly sobered up.

“Christmas gift! I almost forget that part! Can I open it?”

“Of course, my boy.”

He seemed a little disappointed when he saw the gift inside.

“ _A Christmas Carol_ by Charles Dickens…Artieeeeeee~You know I’m not into these Freddie-ish things!”

“It’s not something hard and obscure. It’s a simple story. About self-redemption, if I have to use only one word. I give this to you because I hope both you and Freddie will enjoy it.”

“Thank you, Artie! Let me have a look…w-what’s this?” a creamy card dropped out of the book onto Alfie’s lap. He picked it up.

Then he burst into the most obnoxious laughter.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA—THIS IS HILARIOUS A CHRISTMAS CARD WITH UNICORN AND FAIRY WHO DO YOU THINK I AM A TWO YEAR OLD OH GOD THIS IS THE FUNNIEST STUFF IVE SEEN IN DECADES HAHAHAHA—"

_I should have waited for Freddie to give out my Christmas gift._ I thought sulkily. _This card cost me a bloody shilling, not counting the fee of transportation and errand. You’ll pay for it, lad._

God must have heard me once, for Alfie choked. On his own laughter.

Seconds later, Freddie opened his eyes.

“Nice to see—wow Artie what did you do to Alfie why am I feeling so exhausted?” he smirked.

I rolled my eyes.

“And thank you for your present, they are lovely. Actually, I—no, Alfie and I have something for you, too. Come with me.”

“Alfie and I”? Curiosity drove me follow him into his bedroom.

He bent down to fetch the wooden box from under the bed—it was empty because every week I helped Alfie deliver his love letters to Abraham Lincoln—, then unlocked it.

My jaws dropped. In a good way this time.

Two wooden toy soldiers, about eight inches tall each, stood side-by-side with their arms entwined. One of the soldiers was in a British Army uniform, with huge eyebrows and a grumpy expression; the other was painted what seemed like a Union uniform in the front but a Confederacy uniform in the back, an idiotic, ear-to-ear beam on his wooden face. If you are careful enough, you’ll find that the painting in the front was careless and clumsy while that on the back side was neat and detailed.

I knew what Freddie’s words meant when he was oiling the goose.

“…amazing.” I reached out to touch the lovely pair. They felt smooth, must be the result of long-time polishing. “How on earth did you two do it? I don’t think you could communicate?”

“Not at the same time, to be exact.” Freddie took out a piece of paper from his bedside drawer, “Look, it was Alfie’s idea. I have to admit he is ingenious sometimes.”

I looked at the paper. There was a row of short sentences on it, a childish scrawl and a neat, elegant handwriting occurred alternately.

_Hey Freddie buddy! I’m Alfie. Have you prepared for Arthur’s Christmas present yet? I have an awesome idea!_

_Not yet. Please tell me what you have in mind._

_Remember the box of toy soldiers he gave ~~me~~ us when we were little? I want to make him one, too!_

_Go ahead. I won’t damage your work._

_Noooo! I need your help! I think I’m too clumsy to do woodwork…but I can offer the design! (draw a draft of two toy soldiers)_

_It seems lovely. OK, I’ll take your request, but I can’t ensure to do it as well as you wish._

_No prob bro! Thank you very much!_

_…_

_Oh my god did your cut ~~your~~ ~~my~~ our finger when you were doing the woodwork? Be careful, bro, it hurts like hell!_

_No need to say, idiot. I can feel the pain, too. And I can handle it._

_…_

_I DEMAND YOU PAINT UNION UNIFORM ON THE FRONT FOR I’M THE HERO!_

_Said the idiot who can’t properly hold a graver…_

_…._

I found my gaze blurring.

“Oh god it’s so…sweet of you two…and you planned all the switch thing today, right? You wanted the dinner, he wanted the morning greeting and carolling, and you wanted to hand me the gift on your own, right?”

“Exactly. And I want one thing more.” Freddie smiled wickedly when he pointed upwards. I looked up.

Oh god.

A mistletoe.

Freddie was touching my shoulder. I stepped backwards, hitting the cupboard behind me. _This is a bloody trap._ I cursed inwardly.

“D-does Alfie know about this? He would ‘beat you up’ once he found out your trick, wouldn’t he?” I knew it was all bark but no bite. _I’m doomed._

“You didn’t read careful enough, Artie my honey.” I shuddered at the pet name. His hot breath was now on my throat. “We signed a contract.”

…

_I DEMAND YOU PAINT UNION UNIFORM ON THE FRONT FOR I’M THE HERO!_

_Said the idiot who can’t properly hold a graver…but fine, as long as you let me kiss him that night._

_What? You pervert! Blackmailer! Lowest of the low!_

_You don’t have choice but to play my game, boy._

_(some indiscernible scribbles)_

_Fuck. You win. I choose my uniform. Arthur is yours. Only for that night._

_Deal._

…

I was caged against the cupboard. Wrists pinned tightly to the wooden board. The boy with monstrous strength might not even know he was forcing me.

_What am I, a pretty, living toy soldier?_

I closed my eyes. A pair of soft, warm lips crushed against mine. The kiss felt too passionate to be Freddie’s, but I couldn’t care less which personality was in charge.

_Immature teenagers. Greedy, ungrateful, arrogant asses. Think you’ll have my love in this way. Both of you._

Wet tongue hungrily forced open my lips. My teeth gave up resisting. He entered, he invaded, he marked every inch of my inner flesh.

_But this was Christmas Eve. It was about redemption and forgiveness. And I was a sinner, too._

Large, calloused hands roaming over my shoulder, my back, cupping and squeezing my hips.

_And I would do anything to redeem our sins._

I was carried onto his bed, stripped. I didn’t fight back.

“Do you want this, England?” blue eyes frenzied with lust. The poor boy didn’t know what he was doing. “I won’t force you if you don’t.”

“Yes,” I smiled, “you have my permission, my dear _America_.”

…

“England, you don’t know how I miss you since we had our first sex. Your smile, your voice, your scent, all remind me of that day. You are driving me crazy as time goes by. I just couldn’t hold back anymore. Forgive me. I just couldn’t.”

“England, I love you. You are tender, caring, kind, witty, grumpy, stodgy, and beautiful. You are the best caretaker and lover in the universe…and alternative universes. I want to be with you for every Christmas, for all eternity so that you’ll never feel lonely.”

“England, if I can’t have you, I’ll kidnap you, torture you, rape you, mutilate you, kill you. Since we nations are hard to kill, I’ll burn you alive, make you my martyr, and you’ll be writhing frenziedly in the fire like how you are now writhing underneath me.”

“England. England? England! What are you—gosh you are bleeding! What have I done?!”

…

_“HARK! the Herald Angels sing,_  
_Glory to the new-born King!_  
 _Peace on Earth, and Mercy mild,_  
 _God and Sinners reconcil'd.”_


	8. The Moodiness

_January, 1863_

On the morning of December 25th, I woke up on Alfred’s empty bed. My body had been cleaned carefully, but the pain was unbearable. I struggled up, only to be pushed back to bed by a worrying Freddie who brought me the breakfast he made himself.

Freddie denied to be on the other end of the ferocious sex, saying that he had lost consciousness ever since the kiss began. Must be Alfie’s retaliation, he inferred, the greedy boy had always wanted both, me and his national pride.

Alfie refused to reply to the accusation, saying it was an unacceptable humiliation.

I couldn’t care less.

* * *

It was in a morning several days after New Year’s Day that I started sensing something wrong.

I left Frankfort for Washington D.C. to meet the British Ambassador and some other people on January 1st. When I came back cold and tired at 6 am a few days later, I saw a figure working in the study.

_A usual busy morning for Freddie._ I went straight upstairs. That’s when I heard a hyperenergetic voice.

“ArtieeeeeyouarebackImsogladcomeoverpleaseyoushouldseethis!”

“…the hell?”

Alfie usually didn’t get up until 8 am, and he would keep his sleepy puppy face on for the whole morning. And yes, Alfie liked to blur words, but not speaking in such a crazy speed as if chased by a cluster of scared wildebeests.

I went inside the study only to find how _wrong_ it was. Boxes of books and newspapers scattered around the used-to-be-tidy floor, the only spaces left were covered by leaves of manuscripts and ink stains, which meant there was nowhere to set my foot. Alfie got himself another desk right beside mine, and there was a thick line drawn by red chalks dividing the study in half, with words alongside: “Freddie bastard don’t you dare cross this line or I’ll burn your literature bullshit to dust, all of them. ——A. F. Jones, the Hero of course.” 

Alfie was looking up at me from—oh shit, shall I say an unmarked graveyard of papers? —his desk, his hands didn’t stop dancing (clumsily) on the manuscript. His eyes glittered in a heavenly ecstasy which I have never seen in him aside from during—nothing, ladies and gentlemen. 

“England! Did you read Abe’s Proclamation on New Year’s Day? It was really, really awesome!”

_Yes, the whole bloody world had read it._ “Does it justify your making yourself a paper cave dweller? An untidy one, to be exact?”

“Nope…I mean! Abe sent me a New Year’s greeting letter!”

“Sorry but I’m not into beautiful love tragedies between human and their nations.”

“Artie~ you know I love y…No! Listen to me!”

“Please.”

“I’m going to be a writer!”

“…Why?”

“Because Abe’s Proclamation was really, really…”

“Don’t start over again!!!”

…

I got things straight on my own ten minutes later.

Facts: Abraham Lincoln published Proclamation. Abraham Lincoln sent Alfie a letter to encourage him. Alfie was cheered up. Alfie wanted to do more to help his country. Alfie could do nothing but stay in his house. Alfie was smart and eloquent if he wanted to be.

Conclusion: Alfie wanted to be a writer (who was planning to write more pamphlets and newspaper comments than literary bullshit).

Again, it was not Sherlock Holmes who gave me talent in deduction. It _was_ the other way round.

…

To be honest, I was glad that Alfie finally found some ways to help his side. The spirit was admirable. However, his state of life was very, very worrying.

For the whole fortnight after I came back, as long as he _was_ Alfie, he was working. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He didn’t do things that maintained a minimum decent life, such as bathing or changing clothes. And he always got furious when I told him to do “those dull, annoying routines that erodes human life”, in his words.

His impatience was also reflected in his work. He was _too_ ambitious, _too_ impulsive, _too_ changeable. At first he only wanted to write some short articles and pamphlets in favour of the Union slave policy. He did write some, but was unsatisfied with them in no time.

“Artieeee~ I’m desperate~ I just can’t write well~”

“For a novice in writing, you’ve done a really good job, actually.” I was reading newspaper while replying him, “If there’s something to be developed, I think your writing lacks a good sense of history, you understand? All lecturing without exemplifications. And there is the problem of logic…”

“Thank you, England!” he dashed back into his study in no time.

I regretted my half-hearted comment the next day.

He set a schedule. A detailed, day-to-day one which extended for 245 days (which was the length of time he estimated the war would last at most). He bought more books, more shelves, with the theme of books ranging from contemporary American politics to African history to journalism to metaphysics to zoology (the last one might be helpful for writing a guidebook for escaped black slaves who wanted to do related work, so he said). His list of planned works was swelling every day.

_It’s not enthusiasm anymore. It’s maniac._ I thought, the morning after Alfie stayed up all night studying into _The Phenomenology of Spirit_ and got himself a flu _._ _And my job is to drag him down to reality._

“How can you get such a huge task done before the war stops?” I asked on his bedside, “You know, don’t you feel guilty that you can’t help your country, your soldiers, your escaped slaves _now_?”

Alfie grinned. Shell-white and innocent, but was soon terminated by a cough and a sniff, “T-that’s why I’m reducing my study time to 100 days! I could start writing right after that! Awesome?”

“That’s impossible! In the ten years in St Andrews I barely finished my study in metaphysics from Plato to Thomas Aquinas. Fine, even if you are smarter, you just can’t get it done in such a short time! You’ll exhaust yourself!”

Alfie coughed some more. “You are now as bitchy as Freddie the bastard, old man. Shut up so that I won’t waste more time.” then he turned against me to go on his conversation with his philosopher soulmates. On his bed.

Freddie seldom appeared these days, and he slept for most of his appearance. We barely had a word during his sober time. _Must be exhausted by his other personality._ I thought.

One day, however, thing turned out to be more complicated.

It was the weekend of the second week since I came back. I went to the study in the morning, only to see a figure standing still by the French window, with curtain closed.

“Why not open the curtain?” I asked, “it’s a sunny day. Sunshine is good for your health.”

Alfred turned to me, a faint smile on his pale face. “I’m sorry, love, but I’m afraid I was too much in the _sun_.”

I stiffened.

“What’s wrong with you, err, Freddie? You read literature, but you are not that into roleplaying, aren’t you?”

His smile widened.

“Does it matter whether I am roleplaying or not? Or, more exactly, does it matter that much which personality I am playing now? You’ll always love me as your most precious boy, am I right, my dear _father_?” 

I swallowed.

_Now England, it’s the time to activate your deduction mechanism...be quick... Alfie’s maniac, Freddie’s sleepiness, the man in front of me quoting Hamlet and being strange..._

I stepped forward, grabbed Alfred’s arm, dragged him out of home, towards the centre of the city.

...

“England! Where are you taking me?”

“See? You are even too weak to fight me back. One more reason to take you to the city.”

“Nooooo! I don’t wanna go to a psychiatric hospital!”

“Who says we are going there? Listen, if you are Alfie, you need some rest from work; if you are Freddie, you need exercise and leisure. Now come with me.”

Our first station was the largest bookstore in town. I asked the shop owner to find me a book, then handed it to Alfred.

“ _The Anatomy of Melancholy_...Jeez I’m not depressed!”

“Yes you are, and more serious than that. My diagnosis is maniac-depressive disorder, which is a common correlate to multiple personality disorder, human and nations alike.”

“I can’t see why it matters! I mean, I could be super productive for most of the time, right?”

“Lack of sleep during maniac period would damage your physical and mental health. Also, you haven’t experienced severe depression yet, which could lead to suicide.”

“How could you—”

I stopped scanning through pages.

“Alfred, I’m serious. I’ve experienced all of them during my civil war. I don’t want you to repeat my sufferings. And I hope you could read this book, both of you. It helped me a lot back then.”

Alfred nodded, blue eyes blinking.

After that, we went for a fine lunch (which Alfred devoured hungrily like a captive in prison camps due to weeks of famishing), then a park (where Alfred played with the kids for so long that their parents started suspecting if he was the kidnapper and serial killer in the newspaper), then a theatre (in which Alfred didn’t stop his cynic comments until I gaged him with my handkerchief), then...

I practically dragged a whining, exhausted Alfred back home when the Orion was shining in the cold, clear night sky.

“Alfred.” I said when I locked the door of the house from inside, “You have memory of both of them, right?”

“Huh?” innocent blue eyes staring at me, confused.

“I said,” I crossed my arms, “You are the merged personality of Alfie and Freddie, therefore have memory of them both, am I right?”

Alfred lowered his head, then smirked. A dark, lustful one.

“You are almost right, Mr. Detective.”

“And it was you who forced me to kiss you and have sex with you on Christmas Eve, right?”

“Oh? I thought I had your consent.” he stepped forward, caging me against the door, lips ghosted over my cheeks, “If not, can I have it now?”

“In your dreams...Mmph!” I was cut off by a wet tongue which entered me straight and began raping my mouth in no time. I wanted to fight back, but his strong, masculine scent surrounding me from inside out made my knees weak.

“ _Father_...oh _father_ England,” he chanted, now groping my groin while bucking his hips into me in the darkness, “You know how much I miss you since the day we had our first sex? Twice in a row, to be exact. I doubt anyone can forget it once they have a taste of you. The two poor boys were driven crazy. They suppressed their desire into unconsciousness, which didn’t help because they were personified by me, only with more intensity...” he was trying to lift one of my legs to his waist while keeping to grope my hips, I closed my eyes. “England, my _father_ and my _mother_ , I want to kill you and fuck you at the same time. Either I kill you to end my painful lust, or I have you all day long to satisfy them...”

He halted. I opened my eyes, only to see big cerulean orbs staring at me.

I covered my ears.

“OH MY GOD WHAT DID THE PERVERT DO TO YOU DID HE RAPE YOU DID HE PUT IT IN OR FORCE YOU TO DO ORAL DID HE FUCK YOU INTO THE DOOR OR WERE YOU RIDING HIM ON THE FLOOR OH GOD OH GOD I CANT IMAGINE IT ITS TOO MUCH—"

“Enough!” I covered his obnoxious mouth, “Nothing happened. And thank you for saving me. Now go back to sleep, or you will never recover from maniac-depression.”

“Maniac...what? I’m no psycho! And tonight I’m supposed to read _Shorter Logic_...mm!”

I kissed him on the lips. With my teeth and tongue.

“Forget about Hegel and his obscure rubbish, would you? And read this book if you have time. Better to know yourself first.” I handed him _The Anatomy of Melancholy_ , then dragged him into his bedroom.

I watched him sleep like a baby that night.

* * *

From winter to summer, I was taking care of a maniac-depressive Alfred. The mood circular was independent form the personality switch, which meant Alfie was not always the maniac one and Freddie was not always in depression. Not that I was in favour of Alfie, but the boy in his depression period must be the most saddening sight to behold. He did nothing but pacing around with his head lowered, his honey blond hair a lustreless mess, his sighs long and heavy and his cowlick given up on defying gravity. When he saw me, he might stand still and gaze at me for minutes with his sad, watery baby blue eyes, then with a heavy sign he would crush me into a tight embrace and start crying. Sometimes for a whole night. At first he wouldn’t tell me the reason, but gradually he started telling me about his deepest fears and concerns about war. Despite his carefree appearance, he feared. A lot. He feared that his less experienced men would lose the war, that the escaped slaves would be forced back to their miserable life, that he would disappear one day and never be able to see me again. Honestly, I couldn’t do much to help, but a patient listener was at least something that could give you courage.

A maniac Freddie was a genius. He would deprive him self of his last 6 hour’s sleep, utilising his brain to the maximum in order to get and analyse as much information about war as possible. Unfortunately, he could not send the important massage to the front in time, so for the whole spring he was trying to make something like a telephone. He succeeded, but it only worked at a distance no more than from my bedroom to his.

“So it’s called an emergency line,” he said, “you can call me at once if a robber, a rapist or a serial killer break into your room. Thank me for saving your antique ass, old man.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s more likely that you’ll call me in the midnight sobbing and begging me to sleep with you or you’ll kill yourself, you poor depressive.”

Despite playing the therapist, I had to enforce a regular schedule on him, forcing the maniac one to eat and sleep and dragging the depressive one out for exercise. It was really, really tiring, but not unrewarded. By the end of June, the dual had almost returned to their normal self, if two personalities cohabiting in one body could be seen as normal.

And thank god, the dark, lustful Alfred hadn’t appeared since then.


	9. The Lust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:  
> 1\. This chapter contains rather graphic sexual descriptions, but I don't think it should be rated explicit? Tell me if I'm wrong.  
> 2\. This chapter contains rape/non-con descriptions, though not much.  
> 3\. This chapter contains possibly offensive expressions (racism, or white supremacist), but it doesn't stand for my own opinion.

_July, 1863_

_…He was sinking down on me, bit by bit. I couldn’t see clearly from this angle, but I could imagine how his sweet little hole was sucking in my pink, pointed tip, then my hard, swollen shaft until his lovely cheeks was grinding on my balls._

_He was panting and trembling. His eyes half-lid and his face flushed pink, like a drunk man who was enjoying the liquid down his stomach rather than a cock up his ass. And he moaned, with his head threw backwards and his long, elegant neck stretched._

_How beautiful..._

* * *

I was watching Alfred’s face when he was in deep slumber.

Soft, honey blond bangs soaked with sweat, sticking on his broad forehead flushed by fever. Small droplets began concentrating at the tip of his prominent nose. Pink lips which was used to whine and talk and grin and kiss, remained still in a half-opened state. Innocent blue eyes hid behind fluttering eyelashes, let me wonder what he was seeing. _Was it a nightmare? Some horrific images lingered and made you scream? I don’t mind letting you release inside me again and again as long as by doing this I could relief your pain, if you are not in too deep a sleep to form a boner._

I leaned on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and steady. _You are alive. I should be glad, but a three-day fever is fatal even for we nations. I don’t know what you’ll be like when you wake up. Will you be stupid and numb? Or sensitive and crazy? I’ve seen you in a worse state, though. I could handle it. I could handle any possibility that you might take, any misfortune that might fall on us, as long as you still love me…as your dearest member of family._

It was 8 pm. All battles should have ended at this time. I took the glass of cold water, went outside the room to replace it with a hot one for the seventh time of the day. _I have to be ready in case you come back. Wait for me._

I waited for the water to boil. _What should I say to you? If you are the winner, I shall congratulate you, but not making you too happy in case the other one take control. If your side lost, I shall hug you and kiss you and sing you a lullaby to make you forget your pain. Is this cliché? Or shall I take you to the city centre so that you can enjoy yourself? How about we go to the gallery, go stargazing or go for a long trip so that you’ll remember there are more important, more beautiful things in the world than a bloody civil war?_

All my planning was forgotten when I went back to the room and fell into a tight, desperate embrace.

The glass fell onto the floor.

“England…” a deep, husky voice, “England, I’m losing the war. I might never see you again, but I don’t wanna go… I’m scared...so scared…”

Freddie was crying.

And Freddie never cried.

* * *

_…He was enjoying this, unlike the first time. He started moving, tiny, round hips bobbing up and down with thin muscles in his legs and abdomen contracting and relaxing. I could feel his inner wall tense up at each penetration. I was bucking up my hips to meet his bottom. The tightness, the friction was driving me mad. The body cream was easy to flow down so I have to constantly stop to smear more over my cock. It was a very erotic scene, with the cream dripping from his small, flexible asshole down to my dark pink manhood, and the white ring of cream around where we were connected became thicker and whiter with each thrust, accompanied by lewd watery sound._

_He loved it rough, although he would never admit it. He tried to hold back at first, but soon he began moaning sloppily and loudly like a real slut every time I hit his sweet spot. Faster, he demanded, you are permitted to be rude to me when we are in bed. I wonder if he was suggesting we establish long-term sexual relationship._

_It was an amazing position, but soon I was not content with lying inertly there. I suddenly sat up and pounced on him so that he was beneath me. I swept his legs onto my shoulders. Suddenly lost control, he was so surprised and vulnerable and unguarded, I didn’t waste this chance to jab my cock into his guts in a swift and neat move. He screamed. I smirked. He should be fucked more often by me._

* * *

I was lying in Freddie’s arms on his bed. His large frame was trembling, as if would fall apart at any time.

I heard him sobbing while telling me how his army lost the crucial battle. _Wars are always the same_. I thought. _Only the meaning attached to each war changed._

“England,” he said suddenly, “thank you very much, for everything you have done for me, for us.”

“Why all of a sudden…” I stiffened, then hugged him tighter, “Wait, Freddie, don’t…There’s still chance…”

“I won’t kill myself, even if _I_ will no longer exist.” he smiled and pushed me away a little. “You love _him_ , right? I can’t take away your beloved one.”

“No! I—” I was too desperate to figure out what I was supposed to say.

“Do you love me, England?”

I lowered my eyes.

“It’s ok, I know you don’t, but could you please love me just for one night?”

“You mean—”

“Pretend you love me, convince me you love me, leave me some memory about you loving me so that I won’t regret it, it’s my last wish. Please, England?”

I kissed away the tears running down his cheeks. They were cold.

I gently pushed him down to the bed, straddled over him, then began unbuttoning my dress shirt.

“As you wish, Alfred my love.”

* * *

_I knew it was wrong. You shouldn’t coax your caretaker to have sex with you by pretending that you are dying from a fatal defeat. I knew it was not that bad, and I knew it was disrespect and betrayal, but I just couldn’t help._

_When his perfect, delicate body fit into my arms, I couldn’t help but planned all this._

_He was squirming underneath me now. I’d love to appreciate the little performance for years, but if this was my only chance to make love to him, I’ll make it perfect._

_I scooped him up, his legs around my waist, our lips and lower regions stayed connected when I carried him to my study. I didn’t care if there was someone watching. I didn’t even bother closing the door. Scream, love, scream at your top volume so that the whole continent would know who you belong to._

_He lay on my oak desk, like some semi-liquid spread and melted on a solid surface. This is your stake, England, are you ready to be burned down to dust by my flame of lust? You don’t know how I want you, love. I want to have you on every surface in every position from every angle. We have an eternity for this, if only I won._

_Nothing could turn me on more than fucking him in my own study. His lay on the tablecloth and some scattered papers, the cloth wrinkles and the papers rustled as he was pounded back and forth. His creamy inner thigh was stained with red ink like a freshly deflowered virgin. I bent down to kiss him, drew out a Paradise Lost from the pile of books on the desk, put it under his head as a pillow. He smiled. I fucked him harder in order to watch the smile turning into a needy, lustful grimace._

_I have always loved the slutty side of him, and I always know it was there._

* * *

“England, are you sure you really want to…” Freddie now acted like a shy pupil being invited to his mentor’s home for dinner.

“It’s ok, love.” I kissed the corner of his lips, “Remove your clothes and lie down. Let me do all the work.”

* * *

_The big desk was shaking and creaking underneath us, along with Thucydides, Livius, Machiavelli_ _，_ _Hobbes and Hegel. History and politics are nothing if there’s no you and me, right? Now let them witness our union, our fusion and our rebirth. If I am doomed to perish after this, I’ll mark you, carve you and scar you so that you’ll never forgive me, never forget me._

_I love you, England._

* * *

We made love round after round that night. I was so dizzy and drown that once in the ecstasy of orgasm I thought maybe I did love him. Maybe I said it out loud, for he kissed me in bliss while mumbling sweet nothings in my ears for about ten minutes.

Maybe I had always been wrong. Maybe I should have loved him.

* * *

_I love you, England. I don’t know where it came from or when it started. It must be in my blood, my soul, my whole existence._

_I don’t have much memory for the days before you came. It was all primitive and savage. You reshaped me, brought me goods, language, political system, science and religion. Of course you are greedy, you took the minerals which were my guts the grains which were my flesh away from me so that I’ll always be your poor, dependent little boy._

_I don’t blame you, though. We have a tie of blood between us, our interest, glory and fate entwined together. I admire your strength, and I believe I’ll be your equal one day, if not more. ‘Cause we are the Anglo-Saxon people, and we are born to rule the world._

_I love you, England, because you are everything your and my people could dream of. You are pale, slim, small, a morbid flower in our civilized society. You are icy yet passionate, calculating yet generous, selfish yet benevolent, feminine yet masculine. You are all the contradictions within the myth of modernity. And you are beautiful, complicated, mysterious. You are my delicate Ophelia, my wild Catherine, my stubborn Hester and my enchanting Salome. The more I read about our people, the more I lust for you._

_I fear. Those Yankees don’t know how to appreciate your beauty. They are forming a powerful central government and they want to turn the country into a melting pot filled with physical and mental hybridizations. That’s not what I want for our children. They should be white and pure and beautiful, just like you and me._

_I’ll have many, many children with you if we aren’t both male. I’ll feed you up with my sperm again and again so that your belly is always swollen._

_I want to rule the world with you, with our people and our offspring._

_I love you this much, England._

* * *

I woke up to a heavy slap in the face the next morning.

“Why…Freddie…” I looked up, meeting a pair of furious cerulean eyes.

“You can’t stop thinking of him even when you are sober, huh?” the clear, innocent voice was on edge, “The fucking racist fucked you all night long, and you enjoyed it, and the first thing you do after you wake up is to moan his name. Why? Can’t get enough? How about you suck my dick and imagine you are tasting him? It’s the same body anyway.”

“I don’t do orals. And I don’t want to have sex with you.” I said coldly, “Now could you please explain why you broke into my room and slapped me in the face at 6 in the morning, Mr. Hero?”

Alfie opened a notebook he brought with him.

It was Freddie’s handwriting. Alfie couldn’t fake 400 pages of them on his own. Each page had a date on the top

A diary. Dating back to the day I came here.

I scanned several pages. Some passionate words of love. A few proses and poems. Most of them, however, were graphic sexual descriptions. Involving me.

“See what a lewd person he is? Last night you gave him the chance to realize all those sexual fantasies. And he felt so sated that he left this on my bedside. How decent of you two.” he turned to the last written page, let me see it.

“ _He was sinking down on me…”Oh god._ I was cursing Freddie. _How careless._

“Finished?” Alfie grabbed the notebook from my hand, then started tearing it apart. “You don’t have to read more. You only need to know that he used you, he deceived you, and he called this love.”

“Yeah, now would you please let me go?” I tried to move my wrist which was pinned to the bed by monstrous strength.

“Not yet. Not until you do one thing for me.” cerulean eyes burned with fiery insanity, I didn’t know whether he was going to cry or laugh the roof off. _Where was my whining, grinning sweet little boy?_ He unzipped his trousers, freeing his large, hard cock which had been inside me a few hours ago. _Was that this big?_ Again, he was a grown man. “Suck me. You have already whored yourself to him. It’s only fair.”

I glared.

“I never suck anyone. And I didn’t have sex with him for anything. I just felt like it.”

“It’s love, then? Why did you give him your love which you’ve denied me for so long? Do you share his sick pursuit for pure blood? You wanna breed his white, beautiful children? Did my men fight so many battles for nothing? Why can’t I get my prize of victory?”

He was trembling. His whole body shaking like a leaf due to rage and hurt. I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, not sure to comfort him or to lecture him, but he used this chance to thrust his throbbing cock down my throat.

He cupped my head so that I wouldn’t turn aside. Now he had an eerie grin on his face.

“Never suck anyone, right? Then I’ve conquered your last virgin island, just like you conquered me centuries ago. Once I survived this war, I’ll grow into a stronger nation than you so that I could force you to your knees. I can’t have your love anyway, can I?”

He withdrew his cock from my mouth, waiting for my answer. I wiped out the drools, trying to stay calm.

“No, you can’t, but at least you could have my love as a family member. Now I’m sick of you both. You two never listen to others, never care for consequences, never grow up. Now you have two choices, let me go, or face the consequence of raping the personification of British Empire.”.

The grin widened.

“Do you think I really have a choice?”

His tip was nuzzling my lips. Knowing the gap in strength, I obediently opened my mouth, take it in as deep as I could. It tasted foul, I wanted to puke, but thought the better of it. I’ll teach him a lesson. A choice is a choice, you can’t have both.

I dutifully nipped and licked and bobbed my head back and forth. He was moaning with his sweet, innocent teenage voice. _A fallen angel._

He came inside my mouth.

I picked up my things and left Frankfort for London that afternoon.


	10. The Fragmentation

_July,1863-June, 1864_

If in the countryside of Frankfort you feel the world _revolves_ on its own axis, in London you’ll feel it _travels_ ten times faster across the universe.

India and industry. Trades and treaties. Competition with France. Threats from Russia. It was no easy task to live in the biggest city in the world, personifying the largest empire in human history. Not to say that I had to catch up on all the undone work during my one year’s leave. From July, 1863 to May, 1864, I worked no less hard than a poor young worker exploited by his merciless boss in one of my cotton factories. Luckily, there was no major war to attend to, so I was not too stressful despite the inhuman amount of work.

Besides, I _had_ to keep myself busy in order to get a certain ungrateful brat out of my mind.

I didn’t attend to the gathering of European nations on Christmas Eve, 1863, even if they decided to hold it in London this year. Instead, I buried myself into piles of paperwork under the paraffin lamp on my desk and the streetlight outside the window. I could hear people laughing and talking and carolling down the street, but I couldn’t care less. I didn’t even care that I (maybe deliberately) forgot to bring the two wooden toy soldiers back to London.

At midnight, I heard a knock on the door. I didn’t answer. Minutes later, however, I found a familiar sharp, beard jaw poking my scalp and a slender, womanish hand pinching my cheeks.

“Merry Christmas~ mon petit lapin~”

“Who is you little—WAIT! HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET IN!”

Francis smirked. “No matter how many times I’ve come, I could always find a spare key in your wasted umbrella bucket. How predictable of you.”

“Said the man who always tell his mistresses to put his spare key inside their corsets—”

“That's my Angleterre.” Francis’s expression softened, but soon became serious, “I just didn’t foresee one thing. How come you came back from America? I don’t think the civil war is over?”

“…the outcome is clear. The Union will win.” I mumbled.

“That’s not your concern when you went there in the first place. Plus, I’ve heard that your little Amerique’s mental state is getting worse—”

“JUST WHY THE WHOLE WORLD IS SYMPATHIZING HIM!” I was startled by my own outburst, “Nobody pays me, nobody helps me with a year’s bloody paperwork, and nobody cares if I’ll be driven mad by the goddamn liar and the bloody rapist—”

“You never tell anyone.” he said calmly, “And it seems that there is something wrong with the relationship between you and Amerique. Tell me about it, will you? And please stop crying, the kicked puppy face doesn’t match your beauty at all.” 

“Nasty frog.” I wiped my eyes, “Just listen quietly will you?”

…

Francis sighed behind puffs of cigar.

“l’amour makes people stupid, doesn’t it? I thought you always draw a clear line between families and lovers, not—”

“Yes, I do! I always regard him as a family—”

“Do families date and snog and have sex, aside from the twice for cure?”

“He needed comfort—”

“No, listen to me. You are seriously wrong from the beginning, Angleterre. If you wanted to be his family, you wouldn’t let him kiss you every night and agree to have sex with him when he is sad or beside himself. You would tell him clearly that you don’t want him to do so, but you didn’t. You think you are spoiling him, giving him what you want as a loving mother, but has it ever occurred to you that maybe you want him back? Everything has a reason, mon ami, including weakness of willpower. Try think things through on your own.”

I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I continued to work my brains out.

* * *

On May 14, 1864, I had a visitor, my Prime Minister, Viscount Palmerston.

“Nice to meet you, Arthur. Hard-working as ever?” Palmerston patted my back.

I shrugged. “Hard as hell, but I could handle it as long as they don’t call me to run for an election every a few years.”

A smile emerged on his face for seconds before disappearing. “Actually, Arthur, today I’m here to discuss a very important issue with you. Even more important than your work at hand.”

“What is it, then?”

“I want you to go back to America.”

I bit my lips.

“It’s because of his health again, isn’t it?” I replied after a while, coldly, “Lincoln didn’t want his pet to perish, so he pleaded with you for sending me back because the poor puppy can’t live for a year without me?”

“Don’t be so harsh, Arthur.” he said, “I know it’s improper to force you to attend to a mentally unstable nation, but there are several reasons for me to do so, President Lincoln’s plead is only one of them. Firstly, the Union is apparently getting the upper hand, thus my cabinet and I think that it’s about time to choose side. We want you to help us consolidate our relationship with the USA.

“Second, you and I both know that a personification of nation is far more than an advanced civil servant. He or she is a symbol of the nation, a witness of its history, an exemplification of its culture. You kind are priceless, Arthur. You are the crystallization of human civilization. If the personification of America loses his mind, it would be a great loss for mankind.

“And thirdly, given the severity of his symptom, I’m afraid that if we don’t take actions now, you’ll never be able see your Alfred again…”

* * *

A week later, I found myself at the doorstep of Alfred’s Frankford house again, with my suitcase in hand. It was Mrs. Adair who greeted me at the door. She looked much older, with pouches and wrinkles and a slightly hunched back. She must have been deprived of a good sleep for months.

“I’m glad you finally come back, Mr. Kirkland.” the housekeeper forced a polite smile, “Mr. Jones is in his study. I have to warn you that his behavior is extremely eccentric recently, you might not recognize him as his true self.”

“I’ve heard about that, thank you, Mrs. Adair.” I put my suitcase in my old bedroom, then went to Alfred’s study. The door to his study was closed, but not locked. I held the doorknob, paused for a while, feeling sweat gathering in my palm. _What would he be like? Would he be pale and bony due to the reappearance of maniac-depression? Would he be crying and screaming, scared by his mental images? How long has him suffered? Has anyone attended to him? Why I wasn’t there to care for—_

The door opened.

The next second, I was crushed into a bear hug.

“Artieeeeeeee~ It’s you! I’m so glaaaaaaaddddd!”

“A-are you ok?”

“Yes, I’m feeling great! Come in, bro, I’ve missed you so much!”

It was not the angsty, embarrassing reunion scene I had in mind, but it was even better.

Until I saw his paintings.

“Look! How do you like my latest paintings? I call them ‘gloomy’ series. Aren’t they awesome?”

What I saw, however, was a whole wall of diabolic faces of…things that I didn’t know to be human or beast. The strokes were furious and hysterical, as if the painter was painting while being torn apart alive. In retrospect, I think those works may fall into the category of expressionism, and the lad might be the first avant guard artist on earth, but still, something was wrong.

“What’s wrong with you, Alfred?” I furrowed in concern.

His jubilant expression dropped.

“What’s wrong with you, Arthur my brother?”

“You seldom call me brother, Alfred.”

“Why not? You are my—wait, who is Alfred?”

The symptom was worse than I had conceived, then.

“Are you Alfred F. Jones, the personification of America?” I questioned dubiously.

“What? Who said that I am the personification…thingy? I’m Andrew Kirkland, your youngest brother. Jeez, how did you forget me? Its’ only been a year since you left for London to study law!”

It was an understatement to say that for a second I believed _I_ was the psycho one of us.

“You…what?” I couldn’t stop stuttering.

He sighed. “Well, it seems that cousin Francis was right. You got into an accident and got your head knocked. Fine, I’ll fill you in. You are Arthur Kirkland, 22, a grumpy, stodgy old man who likes literature, gardening and embroidery. I’m Andrew Kirkland, 18, an awesome art student who was too awesome for school so I dropped out to work in my own studio, which was here. Our parents moved here from England 10 years ago, and they both died after that. It was cousin Francis, a diplomat to France, who helped us continue our study. And one year ago, you left for London to study British law…”

After listening for ten minutes, my deduction machine finally produced the answer.

Facts: Alfred called himself Andrew. Andrew told me a ridiculous story which was coherent from his side. Andrew had no memory of either Alfie or Freddie.

Conclusion: Alfred’s body was occupied. By yet another personality.

_God, please end this bloody civil war._ I thought. _Or, jump or not, I’m not going to live long._

* * *

After having dinner with a chatterbox Andrew, with worrying servants and a sympathetic Mrs. Adair around, I was ready to go upstairs when I heard a deep, hoarse voice with strong York accent.

“O my lord dear son you are back!”

“—what?”

I was held up in the air, raised over his head, carried to his bedroom then dumped on his bed.

I’m sorry the scenario didn’t go towards the direction you may have in mind, ladies and gentlemen. When I was lying flat on his bed, he began singing me a lullaby. An English folk one. With his deep, hoarse voice.

“Just why—” I tried to get up but failed.

“Shh—stay still, son, it must be exhausting to have sailed out for a year.” his large, calloused hand was caressing my forehead lovingly.

It was horrible.

His name was Robinson Kirkland, 48, an English fisherman who lived in the Elizabeth era. His only son, me, became a pirate who sailed to America one year ago. I became wealthy and took him here to live with me. He wouldn’t believe he was living in the 19th century, not even when I showed him the modern facilities. (“Must be magic! It’s a mysterious new continent after all!”) And he insisted that he was 48. (“My appearance? Magic, too!”)

As if it was not tiring enough to cope with a boy with babyface who called himself my father, later that night, on Alfred’s bed (the fisherman insisted that he sleep with his long-time-no-see son), I found myself naked, with bitemarks all over my shoulders and chest and something hard poking my rear from behind.

“What the—GET YOUR FUCKING COCK OFF ME NOW OR YOU’LL NEVER HAVE CHANCE TO USE IT AGAIN!”

“Whoa, Je suis désolé, mon cher, but didn’t I have your consent that I could do anything I want to you at night?”

I shuddered at the unmistakable French accent.

“Please~ Je te desire tellement~” a pair of full lips were getting close.

_Maybe I should consider installing a translation machine…no, consider how to save your own ass, England._

I jabbed him heavily in his guts, turned around and threw myself onto him, gripping his throat.

“Mon cher—”

“Say one more French word and I’ll kill you. Now answer me: your name, background, how did you know me, how did you end up here…”

It was the longest night I have experienced in my life, longer than those sleepless nights during the London Blitz. I talked to one after another personalities, wrote down their characteristics in my notebook. There were 24 personalities in total. Some personalities, like Andrew, appear more frequently and was easy to understand, Some, like the Japanese-American girl Asuka, seldom appear and was extremely obscure (yes it was Alfred’s men first established diplomatic relationship with Japan, but this didn’t explain her fluent Japanese and rich knowledge of that country). I was clueless at first, but soon I discovered a crucial feature.

All those personalities had, or at least wished to have, an intimate relationship with me.

My kin, my lover, my best friend, my one-night-fling-turned-admirer, my author (yes, the Japanese girl created me as her fictional character, awesome?)…they reminded me of Freddie’s sexual fantasies. Was the further split of personality an escape to the failed relationship in reality? Was _I_ the ultimate cause of this chaotic situation?

I began to verify my presumption. On one hand, I tried to point out the contradictions in each personality’s narration, being careful not to damage their self-esteem. On the other hand, I tried to play the role as the personality wished, giving them care, love or accompany they wanted (of course, I didn’t give my consent to Simon the French pervert), ensuring the stable mental states of all of them. It was very, very difficult, for it’s against human nature to maintain an extremely uncertain relationship with another. Not to say you have to remember each personality’s identity, characteristics, and mental states. Moreover, it was rare for nations to have so many personalities, so I didn’t know if the personification of America would cure.

The thought of never seeing the real Alfred again made my heart clench, but who was the real Alfred, after all?

At the end of the third week since I was back, I had a fever. A very severe one.

Must be the result of a year’s overload with domestic issues and three week’s emotional consumption. I was in coma for most of the time. Even when sober, I was sort of numb, my brain stopped working, forgetting about the civil war, my nation, the world, _Alfred._

I couldn’t forget about Alfred, though, not when he was always by my side, taking care of me. No matter which personality he was in, he poured me hot water, gave me pills and cold towels, brought me meals and sometimes read me newspapers or told me stories or hummed me folk tunes, depending on the personality in charge. Andrew the artist even moved his studio to my room, in order to paint me some portraits, so he said.

The fever lasted for six days. On the fifth or sixth day, I could barely speak, so the following conversation must have taken place in my dream.

“What would you do if I couldn’t survive this disease?” I asked.

“I’ll dedicate all of my works to you so that the world will remember you forever.” said the artist.

“I’ll take your ashes back to Yorkshire, then scatter them into the sea where you came from.” said the fisherman.

“I’ll scatter rose petals all over your bed and die with you.” said the Frenchman.

“I’ll read you your favourite haiku beside your tomb whenever the cherry blossom come out in my hometown.” said the Japanese girl.

…

“I’ll take care of your people as if they are mine so that you’ll live with me, in me, for me,” said a boy with cerulean eyes and a faint smile, “for all eternity.”

…

“England.”

“England!”

“Englaaaaaaaaaanndddd~”

I opened my eyes in shock.

Big, watery cerulean eyes were looking down at me. 

“England...is it true that you are back? I’m sorry, really, really sorry for what I’ve done to you, though I don’t think you’ll...”

“I’ll forgive you for this time. You were beside yourself and I can’t leave you in that state. Just promise me don’t do such thing again, will you?”

“Yes, I promise not to hurt you again, England.”

“There’s a good lad.”

I hugged him, and at that moment, or maybe long before that, I decided to give him, and give us, a chance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partly inspired by the book The Minds of Billy Milligan, but I never finished reading it so...this thing came out O_O


	11. The Truth

_October, 1864_

I came back at 12 pm. There was light emitting from the study, casting huge, swaying shadows on the wall across from the door.

I entered the study. Alfie was asleep. On the desk. An undone manuscript under his crossed arms. Some black ink spot could be seen on his thin sweater—the only thing he wore on his upper body in the chilly autumn night.

_The git._ I sighed. Ever since June when Lincoln was nominated as president for the next term, Alfie started his self-proclaimed career of “secretary of Abe’s election campaign office”. Aside from his usual work, he waged a campaign on newspaper with the opposition party using different pennames. This was “a battle that we would definitely win…but only with great effort”, as he put it. The result was, he sometimes slept even less than his hard-working other self, even caught a cold because of that.

I took off my woollen coat, walked towards him. When I was about to touch him, I heard him murmur, not sure in sober or at sleep:

“England…you know? It’s ok that you don’t love me.”

I froze. His voice was soft, innocent, and sad, like a child found his dream broken.

“Alfred.” I called him tentatively. He didn’t respond. After a while, however, he mumbled again.

“I know, I know…um…I wouldn’t blame you. Just be with me, and please forgive me…please?”

_The git._

I suddenly felt my heart squeezed, like you squeeze a lemon, got it? I didn’t want to linger anymore, so I draped my coat on his shoulders, patted him to ensure it wouldn’t slip down.

Alfie, however, was awake.

“England?” his half-lid eye widened at once when he realized how close I was. “Please…don’t get this close to me…”

“Why?” I furrowed my eyebrow. The touchy-clingy boy had been acting strangely ever since I came back in May. He and Freddie hadn’t given me any goodnight kisses since then, and even Alfie started locking his bedroom.

He dodged my glance.

“It’s ok if it is your private affair, Alfie,” I pull my hands back from his shoulders, “but if there’s something wrong, please let me know.”

He nodded. His outline seemed sharper under the flickering paraffin light.

“Thank you, England. Have a nice dream.”

* * *

The next day, Alfie announced that he was going to town.

“Life is so hard. A cup of coffee wouldn’t harm.” he winked, voice cheerful as ever, not a little trace of last night’s exhaustion, “Plus, maybe I’ll meet a hot bartender or two. You never know, haha.” he made sure no one except for me was around when he said the last two sentences. I rolled my eyes. He was a grown man. I really couldn’t care less.

Freddie didn’t seem to care, too. He seemed to give up on his intelligence work recently, focusing on writing something else instead. He wouldn’t let me or Alfie see it, but he would put it in a small case with combination lock, leave a note on his manuscript the night before Alfie’s going to town, demanding him to take it with him so that he could resume his work once he took control.

They kept going out for several weeks. From 8 am to 10 pm.

Sometimes, late at night, he would tell me about his new “boyfriend”, a small, brunette European man who wore a grumpy face all the time but was amazing in bed.

Seriously, I couldn’t care less about my younger brother’s romance, but I knew something was wrong.

They were hiding something from me. Both of them. Maybe conspirators.

When Alfred didn’t come back for two nights, I decided it was time to take actions.

Which started from stalking.

* * *

Just after I made up my plan, Alfred stayed out for three bloody nights. He came back at about midnight in the fourth night. He didn’t bother having a word with me. I stopped him at the staircase.

“Where did you go?” I asked coldly, arms crossed.

“Who do you think I am, a three-year-old?” Alfie challenged, wanted to bypass me. I held him in the arm tightly.

“Let go of me, you old man!” he shouted hysterically, trying to pull out his arm.

“Now I’m the ‘old man’, am I? Who was kissing me and calling me ‘Artie my darling’ all the time before he went to bed?” I regretted it the moment I said it. _Damn. It made me sound even more like a deserted lover._

“You miss it?” a sardonic grin, “If I remember it right, it was you who said you didn’t lov—”

“Alfred! Even as a caretaker I have the right to know where have you been. You might get yourself in danger!”

“Well then.” he shrugged, “things are easy. I went to a bar. I met a brunette bartender. He was funny. I wanted to stay with him. That’s all.”

I bit my lips hard.

“How could I know he wouldn’t do harm to you? For example, if he is a spy from the south?”

“Believe me, Arthur, I know people.” he didn’t look at me, “He is a good person.”

Knowing the talk would go nowhere, I let go of him.

“It’s my being oversensitive, then. Hope you are happy.”

I sank into the darkness.

* * *

It was not the truth. I was sure. The cynic tone when he talked to me. The dodging of eyes. The lack of details. Things couldn’t be that easy, and there was only one way to verify them.

To see with my own eyes.

I wore a long, grey coat, a creamy woollen scarf, a pair of glasses and a dark grey hat, making sure that most of my face was covered by the scarf, the glasses and the hat. When I went down the stairs, I was even startled by my reflection in the window. _Good job, England._

Then I followed the personification of America down the street, keeping a distance of about 20m. He was walking fast and straight, very convenient for stalking—ladies and gentlemen, don’t get me wrong, not that I had done such things a lot, I was just talented, like James-Bond-ish talented.

After walking for 30 minutes, he went into a bar—no, a hotel. A big, flashy, typically American hotel.

I felt terrible for those American taxpayers. _You have fought a Revolutionary War only to feed this greedy brat. How lucky you are._

To the hotel. Alfred walked really fast, I had to trot my way up the stairs, only in time to catch him disappear into a hotel room on the third floor.

I waited.

An hour passed.

What could he possibly be doing at 10 am in an extravagant hotel?

Just when I was ready to pretend to be a stranger who knocked at the wrong door, a small figure went past me, heading to the door where Alfred entered.

A small brunette who hid his face shyly in his too large scarf.

He knocked at the door lightly.

“Alfie.”

I shuddered at the nickname. Either this man knew his two faces, or he was really, really intimate to him.

I hoped it was the former.

The door opened. A grinning Alfred went out and gave the smaller man a big hug. The brunette struggled and cursed, but soon fell silent in the strong arms. Then Alfred dragged the man inside.

I felt my heart sink.

His words were true.

This was not the problem. The problem was, why should I care?

* * *

That night Alfred didn’t come back.

I couldn’t sleep.

It was just your younger brother found a new love, wasn’t it? Brotherly love shouldn’t be exclusive.

Or was it that brotherly?

Alfred was hugging the brunette. Alfred was kissing the brunette. Alfred was having sex with the brunette who really, really loved him.

Those images made me upset.

Before I knew it, the next second I was in front of the hotel room door again, Lincoln’s letter at hand.

_Say that you just wanted to give Lincoln’s latest letter to him. You fear it was emergency so you asked the servants who knew your place._ That’s bullshit, but I couldn’t come up with more plausible excuses.

I was knocking at the door when I heard scream in it. _Shit. Screaming at this time of a day. What if they were…_

Wait.

The scream was familiar.

“You American bastard! You said you’ll open the door!”

“I didn’t say I’ll do at this time of a day, did I?”

“Grrrrr—just open the door already!”

“Ouch! Lovino you are tricky!”

“Who’s—”

The three of us froze on the spot the moment we saw each other.

“You?”

Lovino was the first to understand the situation, for he spat:

“It seems that your honey’s here to save your ass, Alfie.”

“W-what—am not—”

“Just what are you two doing here!”

“You told me he didn’t love you, you big liar!”

“But he really didn’t—”

“Could either of you please give me an explanation?”

“Not me. Ask your honey, he’ll tell you.”

“But I couldn’t—”

“How much longer are you going to deceive us?” Lovino and I roared simultaneously.

Alfie, sandwiched between us, squeezed out a sheepish grin.

“Okay, I guess I really can’t hide anymore…”

…

“So you say this began more than a year and a half ago.” I sighed.

“Yup, maybe around Christmas, or maybe…earlier.” cerulean eyes stared at the wrinkle of the bedsheet.

“Why don’t you tell me what you are suffering? Jeez, this could explain all your bizarre symptoms.”

“It only makes things worse! You could do nothing but watching me go mad!”

“As if I’m not doing that now.”

“And maybe you’ll pretend you love me even if you don’t—I don’t want you to be like that!”

“Isn’t it better than you pretend you don’t love me even if you do?”

“Gentlemen.” Lovino raised his hand in a “stop” gesture. “There is a most effective way to heal sexual addiction. Not distraction. Not separation. Just face it. America, I think you need to talk to England. Not like this. Tell him what you said to me. Be honest. I’ll have to go. That Spaniard is complaining a lot recently.”

“Be safe—” I called the leaving brunette.

“His room is just downstairs.” Lovino spoke the sentence five times faster than usual, then disappeared behind the door.

I stepped forward, wrapped my arms around the sitting American’s head.

“Please, England, don’t touch me.” his voice broken with frustration.

“You need this. Don’t you fear, I’ll take the responsibility if you do anything to me. Go ahead, love.”

He nodded.

“England, you know I have...feelings for you for a while, and I know they are unrequited anyway, so I don’t wanna force you. Things were under control until our...unintended first time.

“Everything changed after that. I kept dreaming of you, of us doing...that sort of things. At around Christmas, I started fantasizing about you even during days. That Christmas Eve, alone in the church with you when you passed out, I would have sinned to you if you didn’t awake in time. That night, both Freddie and I knew something happened. We didn’t realize there’s a third personality until late February. We were panicked. I said it was better to send you back to London, but Freddie insisted that since his army was losing—he was always a pessimist—, he wanted to spend his last time with you, or he would try every means to stop me from sending you home. I conceded, partly because our lust was relatively under control during that period. Freddie said he would let you go once his army suffered a fatal defeat. He also said he would ask you for a proper kiss, just like that in the Christmas Eve.

“He lied. He knew he couldn’t help but ask more from you. And I—maybe I was a little selfish, too, to keep you by my side—was outraged when I found out what you let him did to you. I felt betrayed, by both of you, though I know this couldn’t justify my deed. I sinned to you, England.

“I went crazy after you left. I kept dreaming of you, day and night, more intense than ever. Your things, your scent, everything in the house reminded me of you. I boarded up the door to your room, threw away my sheet, my pillow, your umbrella and your tea set. Yet I couldn’t bear not seeing you. I wrote to you on weekly basis, but you never reply. Freddie was no better than me. He even stopped his secret intelligence work to read romantic novels all day, so did Mrs. Adair say.

“Then you came back, like a miracle, but my situation was no better. I couldn’t touch you, even not stand close to you, fearing that you made me want more. After that night I realized I might have said something wrong to you, I fled to the town to seek some peace.

“I didn’t lie to you at first, I was hanging out in a bar all day, talking to random people. One of the costumers was an Italian lad who liked to brag about his nation’s history. Then an idea occurred to me: would those long-split nations suffer a longer psycho period, therefore know more about it?

“I wrote to the Italian brothers and Germany. All of them had similar experience as mine, but only Lovino had time, so he travelled here with Antonio to offer me a hand.

“Lovino was kind. He listened to me and Freddie day after day, sometimes even at night. He gave me many useful analysis and advices, but the most important thing, he said, is to talk with you, figure out a mode of relationship that could work. I didn’t dare to see you, fearing I’ll lose control, but the less I see you, the more anxious I am.

“This is my mental history of the recent two years, England. I didn’t hide or twist anything important. Now how would you judge me?”

Cerulean eyes were staring at me with honesty, hope and vulnerability due to exposition of his heart.

“I’d like to give you a chance, Alfred.” I spoke slowly and clearly.

“Me or Freddie or...” blue orbs confused.

“You,” I sat down beside him on the bed, kissing his forehead. His breath became shallow and shaking under my touch, “only you.”

He hesitated for a second, then gave me a shell-white grin.

“Thank you, England.”

We kissed and caressed each other that night on the bed, but didn’t go further. The moment I poked his armpit and he threw his messy honey blond hair backwards and giggled and hit my back with 1/10 of his monstrous force, I thought maybe I could loved him.

...

The next morning, I woke up and saw Freddie working on the desk with a tired expression. The bed and my clothes were somehow neater than I remembered last night.

“I’m glad you finally chose him.” he smiled faintly to me, “I knew you’ll do it from the beginning.”

“Is Alfie’s words true about the night before I left?” I asked.

“Yes, he didn’t lie, at least according to my déjà vu.” he said carelessly, “I don’t think it was your choices decided the route you take. It’s always the other way round.”

“Pessimism is not a good excuse.” I raised an eyebrow, “I don’t think an impulsive crime carries the same weight as a well-planned one.”

“See? I said you share the same moral intuition with him.” sapphire eyes sharp and cold, “It’s another thing when it comes to real decision, which is a reflection of one’s deepest desires and believes.”

“It’s a pity that they have to be buried deep in case they rot under the sun,” I sighed, then added, “from time to time.”

“You think I’ll come back? With all my unpleasant intentions and memories?”

“Maybe. There was a case several centuries ago. You never know such things.”

“Thank you, England.” He suddenly stood up, opening his long arms. He was much thinner than before, with his cheekbone and collarbone sharp as an angle.

“You’re welcome.” I embraced him, he held me tight and kissed my forehead. His lips were warm.

I hadn’t spoken to him since then.

* * *

_April, 1865_

I woke up rather early that day, to deal with some emergency at home. When I was working on my desk in the study, I felt a pair of strong arms around my shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Alfie? I’m working.” I patted his hand.

He didn’t reply. A wet spot emerged on the fabric on my shoulder.

“Call me Alfred.” a deep, husky voice was around my ear.

“You...finally...”my eyes widened.

“Yes, babe.” he kissed my right cheek, “I won. _We_ won the bloody civil war.”

“That’s my line.” I chuckled, turned around and covered his lips with mine.

Then we dash to the city centre to enjoy ourselves before the news spread all over the city, almost caught kissing in a crowded fair by a police officer.

* * *

When we came back late at night, with me drunk and Alfred’s body covered with bruises and cuts, Alfred sneaked into the study, saying nonsense like the hero should clear up the battlefield, maybe throw away a bookshelf or two. With bare hands, of course.

“Maybe there will be ghost here, woohoooo~” I scared him.

He was scared. “Eeeeeek! Don’t say such things, old man! Or I’ll be cohabiting in this body with a ghost!”

“Want to see my two-hundred-year-old ghost? Haha—”

We froze the moment we saw something on Freddie’s old desk. A book, to be exact, but it wasn’t there this morning.

Alfred screamed.

I stepped forward with a paraffin lamp at hand, glancing at the cover of the book.

It was one of Andrew Kirkland’s portrait of me (of course, no one would recognize me from it due to the expressionist style). With the headline:

_Civil War: The Mental History of A Split Nation_

“God...you should see this, Alfred.” I dragged a panicked Alfred to the desk, turned to the title page, which wrote:

_A personal/national narration of American Civil War, 1861-1865._

_Dedicated to Arthur Kirkland, Alfred F. Jones and all those who have suffered or are suffering a civil war, or a mental conflict._

_Yours sincere,_

_Fred._

“Freddie published a memoir...on the day the Union won the war?” Alfred’s mouth was agape in surprise.

“A fiction, in human’s eyes.” I said, scanning through random pages, “In which I was described as a beautiful blond woman who was his cousin. And Lovino was a brunette girl who accompanied her husband here for a trip. Very safe and plausible.”

Alfred said nothing.

“You don’t wonder how things were like from his perspective? He didn’t take up half of your time doing nothing.” I motioned him to come by my side.

Alfred did come. He grabbed the book from my hand and torn it into pieces.

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Alfred! I know you hate him, but please pay respect to others’ valuable work, would you? Think how you benefited from mine and other nations’ experience during these years.”

“History is written by victors.” he said coldly, “If anyone has the right to publish something like this, that should be me. I didn’t win the war only to see some Confederacy propagandas become best sellers.”

“You haven’t even read a page! Don’t tell me those ‘bad guys do nothing good’ bullshit. This isn’t how a mature nation treats the dissents within its border. This is childish, Alfred. Alfred? Alfred! Come back, you brat!”

Alfred, however, disappeared into the darkness, not even sparing me a look.


	12. The Confession

_April, 1865_

Since the Confederacy surrender in April 9, 1865, Alfred had been planning his return to Washington D.C. This could take weeks, for the house, the servants and other stuff should be dealt with, and we needed time to ensure Freddie didn’t appear any more. “Which means we could hang around the town enjoying the last days of my holiday before I see Abe and his family! Wohoo~”

He insisted that I went to the White House with him so that I could see his beloved “Abe and his family”. I refused. It was horrible enough to get along with one obnoxious yank. Not to say tens of thousands of them. Alfred obviously misunderstood my intention, for he asked if I was avoiding a “jealousy fight”. He even told me that he had thought about it seriously, but still couldn’t decide which one he loved more, me or Lincoln. 

“I mean, the love you give to a mortal is different from that you give to an immortal, understand? You know you wouldn’t age with him, wouldn’t stay with him forever, and you would definitely be very, very sad once you lost him, but you just couldn’t help but wanting to be at his side till the end of his short life, even if he is old and deaf…”

I smiled. I hadn’t been serious enough about his little crush for a human till then. But now, to be honest, I was a little jealous, though I knew I should be glad.

Everything changed, however, in the evening of April 14.

“England!” I heard him rushing from his study to my bedroom, pounding at the door, “England, we need to go back to Washington! Now!”

“What?” I opened the door, a sobbing, trembling Alfred was shaking my shoulders.

“Abe was shot. He is in the hospital. Badly wounded.”

* * *

It took me hours to calm him down. I explained to him that Freddy might appear at any time and threaten the president’s life, that he couldn’t help even if he was there and that seeing Lincoln’s family and friends would only upset him more. He gradually stopped crying, laid his head on my chest obediently and finally fell into deep slumber. _Poor boy._ I sighed.

At about midnight, I was woken up by some movements and noises. When I opened my eyes, sapphire eyes were looking down at me with concern.

“What? Fre—”

I was cut off by a finger on my lips.

“Shh. England, I only want one thing as reward for my helping you.”

I was confused.

His whispered something to me.

My face felt hot.

“This is my genuine last wish. Please, England?”

I thought for a while, then pulled him close, so close that my lips were on his ears.

“I love you, America.” I said softly.

Then I gave him a long, deep kiss.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up to an empty bed. I started worrying.

Did Alfred go back to Washington on his own? Not likely. His suitcase and clothes were still in place.

Did he go out for a walk, or do something to distract himself? Not likely. Alfred was not a morning person, he’d rather lie in the bed for the whole morning doing nothing than go for a walk when he was depressed.

Or could it be…

Alfred’s crush for Lincoln. Freddie’s appearance. Lincoln’s assassination.

Oh no.

I dashed to the roof, to the platform where I used to “brood eggs”.

God, please, prove me wrong.

_“Four score and seven years ago…, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”_

A vacant voice was floating over my head. My fists clenched.

_“…Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, …can long endure.”_

A tall figure was leaning on the railing. My heart sank.

_“…we can not dedicate…this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.”_

I approached that figure step by step. His broad back towards me.

_“…The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.”_

He turned around. Honey blond hair. Innocent blue eyes. My heart ached.

_“…that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom…”_

I recognized what he had by his side. A small, burning paraffin lamp and a large bottle of paraffin oil.

My brain went blank.

“No, Alfred—”

Too late. He poured the content in the bottle from his head down to his body. Thick, transparent liquid all over him, like a bizarre baptism.

_“…and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”_

He was holding the little lamp in his hand.

I stared at him.

“I know you’ll be here, England. I was waiting for you.” Alfred gave me a blinding grin.

“Waiting for me to see you burn? Do you really know what you’re doing? Burning is fatal even for we nations, Alfred, it’s irreversible.” I could hear my voice trembling.

“Yes, I know quite well.” his grin widened, “How about we make a deal, England? You don’t take one step forward, and we can have a small talk before I burn myself to ashes. You can choose to watch or not. How does it sound?”

“Don’t you dare think about it! You bloody—” My snapping was cut off by his raising the burning lamp over his shoulders, ready to smash it down to the floor. “Well, it seems that I have no choice.”

“That’s good.” he put down the lamp, then looked at me, “What would you like to say, Arthur my darling? Go ahead.”

I took a deep breath. _Maybe this is the last chance I could save him. Calm down, England_. “Why are you doing this? It’s not a ‘dying for love’ thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and no.” I could see pain in the boy’s eyes, “Yes, I love him, and I know this means most of my people love him, too, and we are in deep grief now that we lost him, but this doesn’t suffice to making me do this.

“I’m doing this because I believe Abraham Lincoln is one of the greatest men in my history, if not the greatest ever. You won’t understand, England, how he revived the spirts of the nation, how he reshaped American people’s moral world, and how he promised us a dream where liberty and the equality of rights belongs to everyone within our border, no matter his class or race. Sometimes I feel that he, not me, is the true personification of America, for I only represent the chaotic, obscure reality, but he represents a better future for our nation.

“Now see what some of my people had done to him, to America. I once thought the civil war would end the antagonism within my people, but no. Now my people are further split. You should see, England, how many families are celebrating Abe’s death, what those Southern veterans are doing to the escaped slaves, and how those oppositions are obstructing our effort to write the Proclamation into constitution. They don’t know that they are undermining the very existence of America, that America was trampled on, ravaged and killed the moment they betrayed her belief yet call themselves Americans. Do I have a choice, England, except for telling them in the most explicit way that they’ve killed their nation by their hands?”

“This would be in vain.” I commented coldly, “For no one would believe an 18-year-old brat who committed suicide is their nation. None of the existing nations would like to expose his or her identity, either.”

“At least those shameless politicians would know.” he said with contempt, “It’s enough for ordinary people to know that a man dedicated himself for his nation and belief. And our fellow nations would know that America would rather die than let himself be tainted.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that all these reasons were only cowardice in disguise?” I snapped, “You were writing pamphlets and helping Lincoln run election during the war, why don’t you carry on his undone work and keep on fighting those who you regard as enemies instead? You could serve as an advisor to the party you prefer, be a writer, even become a member of militias who help confront the lynching of slaves. You are a nation, Alfred, you have heavier responsibilities than ordinary people, not to say this would hurt those who care for you—”

“Care for me?” Alfred sneered, then shook his head, “Don’t play the emotional card. Yes, I love you, England, but I love my country most. And you don’t even love me, you only care for your national interest which told you not to choose a side until the outcome was clear. I’m sure you’ll do the same thing for Freddie, kiss him and have sex with him and tell him not to die if he is the one who stands here—”

“Alfred!”

I would have slapped him in the face if not because of “the deal”.

“Alfred, I didn’t choose a side earlier not because I wanted to pick the winner. I wanted to get to know you two, or maybe I shall say to confirm my conjecture. I always knew it was you, Alfred. I knew that you would win the war, that I would love you, from the very beginning.

“I raised you. I know my Alfred is a changeable, complicated creature, but I also know two things that are definitely true about him. That he is very kind and idealistic, and that he wouldn’t lie.

“I knew you were him the moment I saw you ran downstairs saying you were leaving because you couldn’t bear living in a slavery state, the moment you kneeled in front of an unmarked tomb in memory of your dead soldiers, the moment you said you would command human knowledge in 100 days only to write pamphlets against slavery…Yes, I was not so sure about it after the accident in July, 1863, but as I thought thoroughly about it, I came to the conclusion that my Alfred would rather be an impulsive rapist than a well-planned deceiver.”

“If so, why do you show affection to Freddie…” cerulean eyes softened a little.

“To compensate him. After all, he represented half of your people, and he was not a bad person. He deserved love and care.”

“But—”

I cut him off. “Do you know why I love you, Alfred? Don’t think it’s all about your immature, idiotic personality. We nations are nothing aside from our people and our history. I love you because that I could see them in you, that you carry with you the most precious things in your hundreds of years of history, if not longer.

“When I first came here, you were little, but you might have existed for thousands of years, judging from how agile you were when dodging a beast and how skilful you were when shooting an arrow. And I was impressed by your native people’s art, crafts and architectures. They were mysterious and beautiful. I made a wish to make this land flourish, to make you grow healthy and strong.

“When some of my men came and started a life here, I admired their courage and diligence. They started from nothing, learning from each other and the natives, sowing, fishing, building a home. They endured the cold strong wind form the Arctic ocean in winter, the hurricane along the west coast of the Atlantic in summer, yet they survived and lived well. I saw the same traits in you. You had endurance, optimism and a strong will, every character necessary for a great nation. I had no doubt that you were going to be one.

“When you raised your own flag against me, I was not surprised. I knew you wouldn’t be mine forever, because you and your people lived for freedom. Your militia were brave and stubborn, they were in rags, shoeless, holding home-made muskets, yet they had victory after victory. Then I saw you, a thin, pale sixteen-year-old marching in the bloody battlefield in a rain-soaked coat. I surrendered genuinely to you, and I never surrender with my heart.”

Alfred seemed to be lost in thought. I continued.

“You are an amazing nation, America. However, your identity as a nation ceases to be once you choose to dissociate it with your people. You fear that your people would turn to the other side even if you’ve won the war. You don’t want to become someone you loathe, like Freddie, right? But your people had given you the answer. Your personalities won’t unite unless their beliefs unite. Yes, Lincoln was gone, hatred and conflict remain, but now everyone could recite the Gettysburg Address, thousands of people are helping the former slaves integrate with the community, and many politicians are trying to write down the abolition of slavery into the constitution. Those who had fought didn’t fight in vain. Believe in your people, Alfred, they had defeated the adverse circumstances, defeated me, now I can’t see why they couldn’t defeat the evil in themselves.”

We were silent for a while. The morning breeze caressed Alfred’s wet hair. He must be cold.

“Alfred?” I opened my arms, saying softly.

“Arthur…” his voice was faltering, “Is it possible that you love me…after all these? I mean, in _that_ way?”

I smiled. _Insatiable child._ “I said I’ll give you a chance, didn’t I? We have all eternity to figure it out.”

“…Arthur…” cerulean eyes hazed, “…Oh god, what have I done…” he wanted to step forward, but his knees wobbled due to the extra weight of paraffin oil. I ran towards him.

“It’s ok, love, everything’s going to be good—” I was reaching for him, my head crushed into his shoulders and my hands touched his trembling ones until—

BANG.

His hands were cold. And empty.

The paraffin lamp was smashed into pieces on the floor. On a great amount of paraffin oil. Still burning.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry Arthur I didn’t mean to oh god what have I done—"

Alfred tried to push me away, but I held him in my arms for dear life. I was panicked, I couldn’t think straight, but I knew I didn’t want to lose him again, not after all we've been through. The hell with British Empire and the responsibility bullshit. If being with him means being burnt alive then let me—

“Hey Arthur.”

“What?”

“Why there’s no fire?”

“How could I know—Wait, there is no fire, you say?”

He pointed down, I saw the fragments of the glass lamp, the thick, transparent liquid all over his body, and nothing more.

Wait.

I dipped my finger into the damp fabric on Alfred’s shoulder, then licked it. It was sweet.

I started laughing.

“Freddie you bastard…haha…and thank god Alfred you know nothing about chemistry…”

“What?” A bewildered Alfred was staring at me as if I was a lunatic.

Then I explained to him how Freddie woke up at midnight, discovered Alfred’s plan with déjà vu and knowledge of himself, replaced the paraffin oil in the bottle with diluted glycerol for medical use in my room, then came to ask a kiss from me for saving Alfred.

“Either way, I saved you.” I winked at Alfred.

“Shut up, old man. You could have killed yourself if not because of me.” he blushed.

“Now including Freddie in yourself? How shameless…mmph…”

Alfred leaned down and sealed my lips with a kiss, which was, literally, wet and sweet.

This was the end of our civil war.

**-Fin-**


	13. Epilogue

_“…I don’t need your civil war…”_

“Alfred! Don’t tease…hah…and please turn off your bloody car audio w-would you?”

“Why should I?”

_“…It feeds the rich while it buries the poor…”_

“First…it’s strange for you to be so nostalgic…ah—and second…it doesn’t fit the atmosphere at all!”

“Okay. First, Gun N’ Roses is far better than Pink Floyd and other of your 60s antiques. And second…don’t tell me it reminds you of Freddie?”

“Nope! It’s just…just…JUST PUT IT IN ALREADY!”

_“…Your power hungry sellin’ soldiers in the human grocery store…”_

“Miss me?”

The sudden switch to southern accent sent shiver down my spine.

Alfred smirked. Cold lustres of sapphire flashed through his eyes.

“Ya know, sometimes it’s lonely being in an alternative universe without you.”

My eyes widened. _Was Alfred joking? No, he didn’t know the alternative universe theory…Could it be Freddie? Or could it be that Alfred had memory of both of them while pretended to be Alfie ever since the war was over? Could it be the lustful Alfred that occurred once on Christmas Eve…_

Alfred pecked me on the lips.

“I’m glad that you’re getting along well with America, but please, don’t forget me. I have a presentiment that I’ll be able to see you soon. Goodbye, England.”

“Wait—”

“Artieeeeeeee—could I move? I’ve been waiting for sooooooo long—”

_Maybe I’ll never know. But…_

“Move, you git…Ow! I said move! Not stab!”

“Sorry~I haven’t seen you for a long time so please forgive me~”

_…no matter what, I’ll stand by your side, watch your fight, even…_

“Yeah…that’s the right point…you’re amazing, Alfred…”

“Practice makes perfect, haha.”

“Wait…who did you practice with in the three months I’ve been away!”

“Shhh—You’ll see when you get to my bedroom—Aww don’t slap me! It’s your toy unicorn ok?”

_…even against yourself._

“Arthur…I love you…”

_My dear, dear America._

“Love you, too, Alfred.”

_“…I don’t need your civil war…”_

_“…I don’t need one more war…”_

_“_ _...What’s so civil ‘bout war anyway?_ _”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of our Civil War! And it's my first finished multi-chapter fic, it's sooooo tiring :'D   
> Anyway, thank you for reading~ You must be very patient if you read this far, for this fic is filled with tedious conversations, and England (myself, to be exact) lectured too much=_= I'll try to write something more natural next time...maybe after IYAH...


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